4  U  UW%tM«W«d 


^^ww>i>»*f*il 


InJHfij 

'3 

.4i4»«-«i  •.«»«M(  t^fWN 

■MM  i-rt-4*^»H4VY*Vnn 

!»52fet2jn:l-4*^ 


■4f»f>|M>»1<«l»H 


'-fWWWwr'^r-' 


i 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


sJ 


'-  '!iMiy?i 


.y>-^?r^:. 


mi^^ 


^■3^K^-^ 


■•'^^^<^ 


/ 


X  LibRL 


THE  GIFT  OF 

MAY  TREAT  MORRISON 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

ALEXANDER   F  MORRISON 

imsn 

HC€RACllRe 


e 


eiRe 


I 


c 


^ 


J 


JUSTIN  MCCARTHY,  M.P. 

Editor-in-Chief  of  Irish  Literature 
Photogravure  after  a  photograph  from  liff 


IRISR 
Ut€RACUR€ 


JUSM  nXMM  MR 

EDITOR  IN  CHIEF 

MAURICE F.EGAN.LL J).  DOUGLAS  HYDE.LLD. 
LADY  GREGORY        JAMES  JEFFREY  ROCHE.LL.D. 

ASSOCIATE    EDITORS 

CHARLES  WELSH 

MANAGING  EDITOR 


VOL. 


I. 


3    i    i 


deboweR'Elliott  company 

CHICAGO 


J    i        ^  J     J 


.  J     J  J   J  J    ^j  J  _ 

J  J 


'  "^  i     '...  'J  '.;>    l'\  '.",  '>''''     '     '     '  . 


'  '       '        \      '      J  '  ,'        '       >  ' 

>   ^    t     ,       1    i'      ,  JJJJ         J  1 


COPYKIGBT,     1004,    BT 
JOBM    D.     MORHIS      «fe      COMPANT 


•  t    •      •   <  • 


*  4  ft     tt   Wft* 


CO 


> 


0^ 


EDITORIAL  BOARD 
AND   ADVISORY  COMMITTEE 


V 


THE  IIOX.  JUSTTX  McCarthy,  M.P.,  Editor-in-Chief 


Maurice  FRA^x'Is  Egax,  LL.D., 
of  the  Catliolic  University, 
Washington 

Lady  Gregory 

Stanuish  O'Grady 

t).  j.  o'donoghub  • 

Prof.  F.  N.  lioHiNsox,  of  Har- 
vard University 

W.  P.  Ryan 


Douglas  Hyde,  LL.D. 

James  Jeffrey  IIoche,  LL.D., 

Editor  The  Pilot 
G.  W.Russell  ("A.  E.") 
Stephen  Gwynn 
Prof.  W.  P.  Trent,  of  Columbia 

University 
Prof.  IL  S.  Pancoast 


John  E.  Redmond,  M.P. 

Charles  Welsh,  Managing  Editor 
Author  of  'The  Life  of  John  Newbery '  (Goldsmith's  friend  and  publisher). 


SPECIAL   ARTICLES   and   THEIR   WRITERS 

Irish  Literature Justin  McCarthy 

]\IoDERx  Irish  Poetry      ....  William  Butler  Yeats 
Early  Irish  Literature      .     .     .  Douglas  Hyde,  LL.D. 
Ireland's    Influence    on    Euro- 
pean Literature Dr.  George  Sigersoii 

Irish  Novels Maurice  Francis  Egan,  LL.D. 

Irish  Fairy  and  Folk  Tales    .     .  Charles  Welsh 
The  Irish  School  of  Oratory      .  J.  F.  Taylor,  K.C. 
The  Sunniness  of  Irish  Life  .     .  Michael  MacDonagh 
Irish  Wit  and  Humor      .     .     .     .  D.  J.  O'Donoghue 
Thk  Irish  Literary  Theater  .     .  Stephen  Gwynn 
A  Glance  at  Ireland's  History  .  Charles  Welsh 

Street  Songs  and  Ballads  and  Anonymous  Verse 


BIOGRAPHIES   and   LITERARY   APPRECIATIONS 


BY 

George  W.  Russell  ("  A.  E.") 
W.  P.  Ryan 
Charles  Welsh 
Douglas  Hyde,  LL.D. 

T.  W.  ROLLESTON 

G.  Barnett  Smith 

II.  C.   BUNNER 

G.  A.  Greene 


W.  B.  Yeats 
S.  J.  Richardson 
Standish  O'Grady 
d.  j.  o'doxoghue 
Austin  Dobson 

Dr.  G.   SiGERSON 

N.  P.  Willis 
Lionel  Johnson 


O 


'IRISH   LITERATURE.' 

*■  Irish  Literature  ^  is  intended  to  give  to  the  read' 
inj>'  world  a  comprehensive  if  only  a  rapid  glance  at  the 
whole  development  of  literary  art  in  prose  and  poetry  from 
the  opening  of  Ireland's  history.  I  may  say  at  once  that 
when  I  use  the  words  "  opening  of  Ireland's  history  "  I  do 
not  intend  to  convey  the  idea  that  the  survey  is  limited  to 
that  period  of  Ireland's  story  which  is  recognized  as  com- 
ing within  the  domain  of  what  we  call  authenticated  his- 
torical narrative.  The  real  history  of  most  countries, 
probably  of  all  countries,  could  be  but  little  understood  or 
appreciated,  could  indeed  hardly  be  proved  to  have  its 
claim  to  authenticity,  if  we  did  not  take  into  account  the 
teachings  of  myth  and  of  legend.  This  is  especially  to  be 
borne  in  mind  when  we  are  dealing  with  the  story  of  Ire- 
land. Only  by  giving  full  attention  to  the  legends  and  the 
poems,  the  memory  of  which  has  been  preserved  for  us 
from  days  long  before  the  period  when  the  idea  of  au- 
thentic history  had  come  into  men's  minds,  can  we  under- 
stand the  character  and  the  temperament  of  the  Irish  race. 

The  Gaelic  populations  have  ever  been  deeply  absorbed 
in  legendary  fancies  and  mythical  creations,  and  only 
through  the  study  of  such  prehistoric  literature  can  we 
understand  the  true  national  character  of  these  peoples. 
The  mythical  heroes  which  a  race  creates  for  itself,  the 
aspirations  which  it  embodies  and  illustrates,  the  senti- 
ments which  it  immortalizes  in  story  and  in  ballad,  will 
help  us  to  understand  the  real  character  of  the  race  better 
than  it  could  be  expounded  to  us  by  any  collection  of  the 
best  authenticated  statistics.  We  could  not  really  knov.- 
the  history  of  Greece  without  the  Homeric  poems,  and  we 
cannot  understand  the  history  of  Ireland  without  study- 
ing the  legends  and  poems  which  have  preserved  for  (>ur 
time  the  aspirations  and  the  ideals  of  prehistoric  Erin. 
According  to  the  accepted  belief  of  prehistoric  days,  Ire- 
land was  occupied  or  colonized  in  the  early  past  first  by  an 
invasion,  or  perhaps  it  might  better  be  called  a  settlement, 
from  the  Far  East,  and  afterward  bv  an  adventurous  visi- 
tation  from  the  shores  of  Greece. 

vii 


viii  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

One  of  the  names  given  to  the  Irish  people  as  it  developed 
from  this  later  settlement  carries  with  it  and  must  ever 
tarry  the  proclamation  of  its  Greek  origin.  There  is  in- 
deed in  the  early  literature  of  Ireland  much  that  still  illus- 
trates that  Hellenic  character.  It  may  therefore  be  fairly 
assumed  that  the  Phenicians  first  and  the  Greeks  after- 
Avard  left  their  impress  on  the  development  of  the  Irish 
race.  Nothing  imi)resses  a  stranger  in  Ireland  who  takes 
any  interest  in  studying  the  Irish  people  more  often  and 
more  deeply  than  the  manner  in  which  poetic  and  prehis- 
toric legend  finds  a  home  in  the  Irish  mind.  The  sentiment 
of  nationality  is  also  a  pervading  characteristic  of  Irish  lit- 
erature from  prehistoric  times  down  to  the  present  day. 
The  idea  of  Ireland  is  metaphorically  embodied  in  the  con- 
ception of  a  mythical  goddess  and  queen,  to  whom  all 
succeeding  generations  of  Irishmen  give  a  heartfelt,  even 
when  half  unconscious,  reverence.  In  his  marvelous  poem 
'  Dark  Kosaleen,'  James  Clarence  Maugan,  the  centenary 
of  whose  birth  was  celebrated  in  Ireland  in  1903,  has  made 
this  conception  seem  like  an  embodied  reality.  To  the  or- 
dinary matter-of-fact  person  this  feeling  of  devotion  to  the 
national  idea  may  sometimes  appear  like  mere  sentimen- 
tality. But  even  the  most  matter-of-fact  person  would 
have  to  acknowledge,  if  he  looked  into  the  question  at  all, 
that  this  idea,  sentimental  or  not,  has  lived  and  never 
shows  signs  of  decay  through  all  the  changes,  all  the  con- 
quests, and  all  the  foreign  settlements  which  have  come 
upon  Ireland  in  the  centuries  of  which  we  can  trace  the 
authentic  history. 

No  conqueror  ever  made  more  resolute  attempts  to  sup- 
press and  to  extirpate  this  national  sentiment  than  have 
been  made  by  the  Normans,  by  the  Anglo-Saxons,  and  by 
the  English  niasters  who  have  held  possession  of  Ireland 
since  the  birth  of  Christianity.  There  never  was  a  time 
when  the  Irish  language  ceased  to  be  the  vernacular  of 
daily  life  among  the  Irish  peasantry  in  many  i)arts  of  the 
(irccn  Island.  As  with  the  (ireeks  so  with  the  Irish:  there 
was  always  a  vein  of  bright  huiiioi'  animating  the  native 
literature,  even  when  the  general  tone  of  that  literature 
was  naturally  most  disi)osed  to  melancholy  and  even  to 
tragedy.  \\  lien,  under  the  dominiini  of  English-speaking 
rulers,  the  Gaelic  language  ceased  altogether  to  be  the 


IRLSH   LITERATURE.  ix 

exponent  of  Irish  literature,  the  same  blended  strains  of 
humor  and  of  pathos  distiuj^uished  Irish  poetry  and  Irish 
fiction  from  the  poetry  and  the  romance  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race.  Every  effort  was  made  at  one  time  by  the 
English  conquerors  to  stamp  out  the  use  of  the  Gaelic 
tongue,  Imt  no  efforts  and  no  power  could  change  the 
mold  of  the  Irish  mind.  We  know  that  in  some  mem- 
orable instances  captive  Ireland,  like  captive  Greece, 
conquered  her  conquerors,  and  that  the  victor  accepted 
and  welcomed  the  sway  of  the  vanquished.  The  race  of 
the  Geraldiues  came  to  be  described  as  more  Irish  than 
the  Irish  themselves,  and  down  to  very  modern  days  were 
identified  with  Ireland's  struggle  for  the  recovery  of  her 
national  independence.  So  much  of  course  could  not  be 
said  for  that  great  English  poet  Edmund  Spenser,  who 
lived  so  long  in  Ireland  that  some  of  the  finest  passages 
in  his  poems  seemed  to  have  caught  their  inspiration  from 
the  scenery  and  the  atmosphere  of  that  noble  river  on 
whose  banks  he  mused  so  much,  that  "  Avondhu  which  of 
the  Englishmen  is  called  Blackwater." 

There  came  a  time,  as  must  naturally  have  been  ex- 
pected, when  Irishmen  ambitious  of  success  in  literature 
sought  a  more  favorable  field  for  their  work  by  settling 
in  the  English  metropolis.  Irishmen  became  successful 
in  English  literature,  art,  politics,  and  science,  and  were 
able  to  hold  their  own  in  any  competition.  This  Avas  not, 
however,  the  greatest  period  of  English  literature.  Dur- 
ing the  Elizabethan  age,  the  age  of  Shakespeare,  Ben 
Jonson,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  and  Massinger,  the  great 
change  was  taking  place  in  Ireland  which  doomed  the 
native  tongue  to  temporary  silence  and  the  genius  of  Ire- 
land to  a  time  of  eclipse  while  the  English  language  was 
still  only  growing  into  use  in  Ireland.  When  we  come  to 
that  great  era  of  English  letters  represented  by  the  Queen 
Anne  period,  and  from  that  onward,  we  can  find  Irishmen 
holding  their  own  in  the  language  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
against  the  best  of  the  Anglo-Saxons  themselves.  The 
plays  and  poems  of  Goldsmith,  the  dramas  of  Sheridan, 
cannot  be  said  to  have  had  any  rivals  in  the  England  of 
their  time,  and  have  certainly  had  no  rivals  in  later  days. 
Sheridan  was  one  of  the  greatest  parliamentary  orators 
who  ever  delighted  the  House  of  Commons.    The  great  Sir 


X  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

Robert  Peel  declared  that  Edmund  Burke  \vas  the  most 
eloquent  of  the  orators  and  the  most  profound  of  the  philo- 
sophical politicians  of  the  modern  Avorld. 

Durinj;-  all  this  period  there  was  little  or  nothing  of 
proclaimed  nationality  in  the  literature  which  Irishmen 
contributed  to  the  history  of  English  letters.  The  public 
Irishmen  addressed  was,  first  of  all,  an  English  public, 
and  it  had  to  be  supplied  with  literature  appealing  to 
the  taste  and  to  the  experiences  of  English  readers.  Yet 
even  during  that  time  there  was  always  strong  evidence 
of  nationality  in  the  work  done  by  these  Irishmen.  It  is 
impossible  not  to  see  that  the  fervor  of  Irish  feeling  and 
the  vividness  of  Irish  imagination  counted  for  much  in  the 
best  speeches  of  Burke  and  Sheridan,  and  may  be  felt  in 
some  of  the  finest  passages  contained  in  liurke's  '  French 
Kevolution.'  Swift  never,  to  my  thinking,  developed  in 
his  own  ways  of  thought  and  feeling  any  of  the  genuine 
characteristics  of  Ireland's  national  temperament.  But 
it  is  certain  that  until  long  after  Svv'ift's  time  Ireland's 
literary  work  was  still  passing  through  that  curious  period 
of  development  when  by  the  unavoidable  conditions  of  the 
era  it  had  to  address  itself  in  a  foreign  tongue  to  a  foreign 
audience.  The  fact  upon  which  I  desire  to  dwell  is  that 
even  through  this  era  the  national  genius  and  spirit  of 
Ireland  showed  itself  distinct  and  vital,  and  never  became 
wholly  absorbed  into  the  moods  and  methods  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  literature. 

As  the  years  went  on  there  began  to  grow  up  more  and 
njore  in  Ireland  the  tendency  toward  a  genuine  revival  of 
the  Irish  national  sentiment  and  toward  the  restoration 
of  a  national  literature.  In  Ireland  there  arose  a  race  of 
men  who  no  longer  thought  of  writing  merely  for  the  Eng- 
lish public,  but  who  were  inspired  by  tlie  conviction  that 
there  was  still  in  tlieir  native  country  a  welcome  to  be 
found  for  an  Irish  national  literature.  There  was  at  that 
time  no  deliberate  purpose  for  the  restoration  of  the  Irish 
national  language,  such  as  we  can  see  giving  ample  proof 
of  its  existence  in  our  own  days;  but  tliere  was  very  dis- 
tinct and  pal])able  evidence  that  a  new  generation  had 
already  come  up  which  was  to  have  an  Irish  literature  of 
its  own.  It  can  be  shown  as  a  matter  of  fact  that  the  up- 
rising of  this  new  spirit  of  vitality  in  Ireland's  literary  de- 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  xi 

velopment  was  due,  in  great  measure,  to  that  very  scheme 
of  English  statesmanship  which  was  introduced  and  car- 
ried into  effect  for  the  purpose  of  extinguishing  Ireland's 
nationality  altogether.  That  scheme  was,  1  need  hardly 
say,  the  Act  of  Union  which  deprived  Ireland  of  her  na- 
tional Parliament  with  the  object  of  blending  the  legisla- 
tures of  Great  Britain  and  the  so-called  sister  island  into 
one  common  Parliament  and  one  common  system  of  law, 
and  thus  extinguishing  the  national  spirit  of  Ireland. 

One  of  the  immediate  results  of  the  Act  of  Union  and 
the  suppression  of  the  Irish  National  Parliament  was  to 
bring  about  a  sharp  and  sudden  reaction  against  the  grow- 
ing tendency  to  make  Irish  literature  merelj^  a  part  of  the 
literature  of  England.  From  that  time,  it  may  be  said 
with  literal  accuracy,  there  came  into  existence  the  first 
school  of  reallj'  able  Irish  authors  who,  although  writing 
in  the  English  language,  made  their  work  distinctively 
and  thoroughly  Irish.  Such  novelists  as  Banim,  Carleton, 
Gerald  Griffin,  and  others  were  as  inherently  Irish  as  if 
they  had  written  in  the  old  language  of  the  Gaelic  race.  I 
do  not  mean  merely  that  the  scenes  and  personages  they 
described  were  Irish,  but  I  desire  to  emphasize  the  fact 
that  the  feelings,  the  imagination,  the  way  of  looking  at 
subjects,  and  the  very  atmosphere  of  the  novels  breathed 
the  Irish  nature  as  fully  as  a  harp  breathes  the  national 
music  of  Ireland.  Take  even  the  novels  of  Lady  Morgan, 
with  all  their  flippancy,  their  cheap  cynicism,  their  highly 
colored  pictures  of  fashionable  life  in  Dublin,  their  lack 
of  any  elevated  purpose  whatever — even  these  novels  were, 
in  their  faults  as  well  as  in  whatever  merits  they  possess, 
unquestionably  Irish.  There  are  descriptions  in  some  of 
Lady  Morgan's  novels  which  give  us  the  scenery  and  the 
peasant  life  of  Ireland  with  a  realism  and  at  the  same 
time  a  national  inspiration  which  no  stranger  trying  to 
describe  a  foreign  country  could  ever  have  accomplished. 
Poor  Ladv  Morgan — she  had  indeed  manv  deficiencies  and 
many  positive  defects;  but  after  all  it  may  be  allowed  that 
she  would  compare  not  disadvantageously  with  some  Eng- 
lish women  wlio  have  written  novels  that  are  the  rage 
among  large  masses  of  novel-readers  in  the  England  of  our 
own  times.  I  am  not  disposed  to  enter  here  into  any  study 
of  Lady  Morgan's  literary  productions.    My  only  object  in 


xii  JIUSH   LITERATURE. 

writiii«r  of  hor  is  to  show  that  oven  she  who  worked  under 
the  worst  intiuences  of  the  system  of  alien  rule  in  Ireland, 
and  who  certainly  could  not  be  supposed  to  have  written 
her  novels  in  order  to  win  the  favor  of  the  Irish,  could  not 
escape  from  the  iutlueuce  of  the  new  era,  and  was  com- 
pelled to  write  in  the  spirit  and  the  style  of  the  national 
revival. 

]\Iy  own  conviction  is  that  the  most  interesting,  the  most 
characteristic,  and  for  my  present  purpose  the  most  in- 
structive of  all  Irish  novels  is  '  The  Collegians,'  by  Gerald 
(Jrillin.  This  story  is  a  literary  masterpiece,  and  is  well 
entitled  to  take  its  place  with  some  of  the  best  of  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott's  immortal  rouumces.  Its  story,  its  most  striking 
characters,  its  scenery  are  illumined  by  the  very  light  of 
genius;  its  pathos  is  as  deep  and  true  as  its  humor  is  rich, 
racy,  and  genuine;  it  contains  some  original  balhuls  which 
seem  as  if  they  ought  to  be  sung  in  Irish;  and  its  pictures 
of  the  Irish  peasantry  stand  out  like  the  living  and  breath- 
ing embodiments  of  the  people  they  illustrate.  Let  me  add 
that  I  do  not  know  of  any  other  Irish  novelist  who  has 
tlie  happy  faculty  of  reproducing  with  perfect  accuracy  the 
dilTerent  dialects  of  Ireland's  four  provinces  and  never 
making  a  Connaught  nmn  or  woman  talk  (juite  like  a  na- 
tive of  Leinster  or  of  Munster.  I  am  afraid  too  many 
readers  get  their  ideas  concerning  '  The  Collegians ' 
chiefly  from  Dion  Boucicault's  clever  and,  for  stage  pur- 
poses, most  effective  adaptation  of  the  novel  under  the  title 
of  '  The  (Jolleen  Bawn.'  The  more  exquisite  qualities  of 
the  novel  seem  to  vanish  in  the  process  of  theatrical  pres- 
entation, and  the  marvelous  beauties  of  Gerald  Griffin's 
prose  style,  as  well  as  the  finer  and  more  subtle  touches  of 
cliaracter,  are  not  reproduced  for  the  benefit  of  the  specta- 
tors in  the  stalls,  boxes,  or  galleries  of  tlie  theater. 

After  tlie  days  of  (Jerald  Griffin's  liuest  work  came 
Charles  Lever,  with  his  broad,  bright,  comic  humor,  his 
rattling  descriptions  of  the  drolleries  and  the  contrasts  of 
Irish  life  among  the  landlord  and  the  peasant  class  alike. 
I  do  not  desire  to  sav  a  word  of  disparagement  where  books 
like  'Charles  O'Malley,'  'Jack  llinton,'  and  'The  Dodd 
Family  Abroad'  are  concerned.  They  have  served  their 
excellent  pi]r[)ose,  have  given  much  amusement  and  like- 
wise some  telling  instruction,  and  they  are  likely  to  find 


IRISH   LITERATURE.  xiii 

readers  for  a  lone:  time  vet  to  come.  But  there  has  often 
come  into  my  mind  a  distinct  panj;'  of  mortifi(Ml  national 
and  literary  pride  at  the  thought  that  probably  the  great 
majority  of  English-speaking  readers  who  accept  these 
books  as  typical  Irish  novels  know  notliing  whatever  of 
that  real  masterpiece  of  Irish  romance,  '  The  Collegians,' 
unless  what  they  learn  from  the  successful  drama  of  Dion 
Boucicault.  However  that  may  be,  what  I  have  esi)ecial]y 
desired  to  explain  in  these  latter  pages  is  that  the  litera- 
ture of  Ireland  broke  away  at  a  certain  period  altogether 
from  its  companionship  with  the  literature  of  England, 
and  asserted  itself,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  as  the 
genuine  product  of  the  Irish  soil,  claiming,  on  that  ac- 
count, the  especial  recognition  of  the  Irish  people. 

There  now  arose  a  new  movement  in  the  national  prog- 
ress of  Ireland.  That  movement  showed  itself  in  organized 
shape  under  the  leadership  of  Daniel  O'Connell.  O'Con- 
nell  claimed  first  of  all  the  legislative  repeal  of  the  Act  of 
Union  and  the  restoration  of  the  Irish  National  Parlia- 
ment, but  he  asserted  also  the  right  and  the  duty  of  Irish- 
men to  maintain  their  distinct  nationality  in  literature 
and  art  as  well  as  in  political  systems.  I  do  not  invite  my 
readers  into  any  consideration  of  the  political  effects  of 
O'ConnelFs  movement,  but  I  wish  to  call  their  attention 
to  the  fact  that  it  gave  impulse  and  opportunity  for  the 
opening  of  a  new  chapter  in  the  story  of  Irish  national  lit- 
erature. The  Young  Ireland  Party  rose  into  existence  to 
protest  against  what  it  believed  to  be  the  too  passive  and 
too  dilatory  policy  of  O'Connell,  and  to  arouse  the  country 
into  a  more  earnest,  vigorous,  and  concentrated  expression 
of  nationality.  Then  came  that  brilliant  chapter  in  Irish 
literature  illustrated  by  such  poets  as  Thomas  Davis, 
James  Clarence  Mangan,  Richard  Dalton  Williams  (who 
was  known  as  "Shamrock");  such  prose  writers  as 
Charles  Gavan  Duff}^,  John  Mitchel,  Devin  Reilly;  and 
such  orators  as  Thomas  Francis  Meagher  and  Kichard 
O'Gorman.  Most  of  those  men  had  to  pay  for  their  con- 
duct of  the  National  movement  the  penalty  which  was 
habitual  in  earlier  days,  and  were  either  sentenced  by  Eng- 
lisli  law  to  expatriation  or  else  compelled  to  seek  in  a 
foreign  country  that  career  which  was  made  impossible  for 
them  in  their  own.  Charles  Gavan  DuiTv  found  a  Iiome  and 


xiv  IRI^H   LITERATURE. 

success  in  Australia;  Thomas  Francis  Meagber  fought  for 
the  cause  of  the  North  in  the  American  civil  war  and  led 
his  Irish  Brigade  on  the  heights  of  Fredericksburg;  and 
Kicbard  O'Gorman  made  his  way  to  influence  and  posi- 
tion in  New  York. 

Fr(jm  that  time  up  to  the  present  the  national  spirit  of 
Ireland  has  asserted  itself  steadily  in  the  literature  of  the 
country,  although  some  of  its  most  gifted  exponents,  like 
John  Boyle  O'Keilly,  had  still  to  seek  for  success  and  to 
find  it  in  the  United  States.  But  with  the  rise  of  that 
literary  moyement  which  began  with  the  days  of  "Young 
Ireland  "  there  passed  away  altogether  the  period  when 
Irish  poetry  and  prose  were  content  to  regard  themselves 
as  the  minor  auxiliaries  of  English  letters.  The  Irish  men 
and  women  who  now  write  histories,  essays,  romances,  or 
poems  are,  as  a  class,  proud  of  their  nationality  and  pro- 
claim it  to  the  world. 

The  object  of  this  li])rary  of  'Irish  Literature'  is  to 
give  to  the  readers  of  all  countries  what  I  may  describe  as 
an  illustrated  catalogue  of  Ireland's  literary  contributions 
to  mankind's  Intellectual  stores.  The  readers  of  these  vol- 
umes can  trace  the  history  of  Ireland's  mental  growth 
from  the  dim  and  distant  days  of  myth  and  legend  down 
to  the  opening  of  the  present  century.  From  the  poetic 
legend  wliicb  tells  '  The  Three  Sorrowful  Tales  of  Erin  ' 
and  that  which  tells  the  fate  of  the  cliildren  of  Lir,  down 
to  the  poems  and  romances  of  our  own  time,  this  library 
may  well  help  the  intelligent  reader  to  appreciate  the 
spirit  of  Irish  nationality  and  to  follow  the  course  of  Ire- 
land's literary  stream  from  the  dim  regions  of  the  prehis- 
toric day  to  the  broad  and  broadening  civilization  of  the 
present.  I  desire  especially  to  call  the  attention  of  readers 
to  the  fact  that  throughout  that  long  course  of  Irisli  litera- 
ture it  has  always  retained  in  its  brightest  creations  the 
same  distinct  and  general  character  of  Irish  nationality.  I 
think  any  one  studying  these  volumes  will  see  that  even 
during  the  adverse  and  ungenial  times  when  Irishmen 
seemed  to  accept  the  condition  of  disparagement  under 
which  they  wrote,  and  to  bo  (|uite  willing  to  accept  a  place 
as  contributors  to  England's  literature,  the  characteristics 
of  the  Irish  nature  still  found  clear,  although,  it  may  be, 
quite  unconscious,  expression  in  their  romances,  dramas, 
and  poems. 


IRISH  LITERATURE.  xv 

The  same  story  has  to  be  told  of  Scotland  and  even  of 
Wales;  but  neither  Scotland  nor  A\'ales  was  ever  subjected 
to  the  same  ]oui>-  and  constant  pressure  for  the  extinction 
of  its  nationality  which  strove  for  centuries  against  the 
utterance  of  Ireland's  genuine  voice.  Scotland  was  always 
able  to  hold  her  own  against  the  domination  of  England, 
just  as  when  she  consented  to  merge  her  Parliament  into 
tliat  of  Britain  slie  was  able  to  maintain  her  own  system 
of  laws,  her  own  creed,  and  her  own  national  institutions. 
No  such  pertinacity  of  effort  on  the  part  of  the  ruling 
power  was  ever  made  to  suppress  the  language  of  Wales 
as  that  which  was  employed,  even  up  to  comparatively 
modern  times,  for  the  suppression  of  the  language  of  Ire- 
land. Yet  the  reader  of  these  volumes  vvill  easily  he  able 
to  see  for  himself  that  the  true  spirit  of  the  Irish  Celt 
found  its  full  expression  Avith  equal  clearness,  vrhether  it 
breathed  througli  the  hereditary  language  of  the  Irish 
people  or  through  the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue  which  that  peo- 
ple was  compelled  to  adopt.  The  literature  of  Ireland 
remains  from  the  first  to  the  last  distinctivelv  Irish. 

The  study  of  this  historical  and  ethnological  truth  may 
well  give  to  the  reader  a  new  and  peculiar  interest  while  he 
is  reading  these  volumes.  But  I  must  not  be  supposed  to 
suggest  that  this  constitutes  the  chief  interest  in  the  works 
of  Irishmen  and  Irishwomen  which  are  brought  together 
in  this  collection.  The  fact  to  which  I  have  invited  atten- 
tion is  one  of  great  literary  and  historical  value,  but  the 
array  of  literary  work  we  present  to  the  world  in  this 
library  offers  its  best  claim  to  the  world's  attention  by  its 
own  inherent  artistic  worth.  We  are  presenting  to  our 
readers  in  these  volumes  a  collection  of  prose  and  poetrj^ 
that  cannot  but  be  regarded  as  in  itself  a  cabinet  of  literary 
treasures.  The  world  has  no  finer  specimens  of  prose  and 
poetry,  of  romance  and  drama,  than  some  of  the  best  of 
those  which  the  genius  of  Ireland  can  claim  as  its  own. 
When  we  come  somewhat  below  the  level  of  that  highest 
order,  it  will  still  be  found  that  Ireland  can  show  an 
average  of  successful  and  popular  literature  equal  to  that 
of  any  other  country.  The  great  wonder-flowers  of  liter- 
ature are  rare  indeed  in  all  countries,  and  Ireland  has 
had  some  wonder-flowers  which  miglit  well  charm  the  most 
highly  cultivated  readers.     When  we  come  to  the  literary 


xvi  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

jiarileus  uot  claim iiij;*  to  exhibit  those  marvelous  products, 
we  shall  liud  that  the  tlower-betls  of  Iielaud's  literature 
may  fearlessly  invite  comparisoii  ^^■ith  the  average  growth 
of  any  other  literature,  1  have  spoken  of  the  great 
nu)vement  which  is  lately  coming  into  such  activity  and 
winning  already  so  much  practical  success  in  Ireland  for 
the  revival  of  the  Gaelic  language  and  its  literature. 
Every  sincere  lover  of  literature  must  surely  hope  that 
this  movement  is  destined  to  complete  success,  and  that 
the  Irishmen  of  the  coming  years  may  grow  up  with  the 
knowledge  of  that  language  in  which  their  ancestors  once 
spoke,  wrote,  and  sang,  as  well  as  of  that  Anglo-Saxon 
tongue  which  alread}'  bids  fair  to  become  the  leading  lan- 
guage of  civilization.  But  in  the  meanwhile  it  is  beyond 
(juestion  that  Ireland  has  created  a  brilliant  and  undying 
literature  of  her  own  in  the  English  language  and  there 
can  be  no  more  conclusive  evidence  of  tliis  than  will  be 
found  in  the  library  of  '  Irish  Literature.' 


%rc^i^Zz!if   /h 


"UU^Z/ 


1^^^ 


LlUr:    UJr      lill     u]( 


ON  THE  OLD  SOD 

From  the  painting  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum  of  Fine  Arts, 

New   York 

"  The  Irish  Farmer  in  Contemplation,"  by  William 
McGrath. 

This  famous  picture  of  a  familiar  Irish  scene,  painted 
by  an  Irishman,  is  a  conspicuous  and  favorite  object  in 
our  national  collection.  ' 


FOREWORD. 

Professor  John  Tyndall,  an  Irishman,  was  the  first  to 
show  the  world  "  the  scientific  use  of  the  imagination." 
He  shared  with  Professor  Huxley  the  honor  of  being  the 
most  luminous  exponent  of  abstruse  scientific  proposi- 
tions that  the  >\orld  has  ever  seen.  Powerful  and  vivid 
imagination,  both  mystic  and  scientific,  is  the  character- 
istic and  dominant  element  in  Irish  literature. 

Even  literary  experts  are  hardly  aware  how  many  of  the 
bright  particular  stars  which  stud  the  firmament  of  Eng- 
lish literature  are  Irishmen.  Ireland  has  produced  men  of 
mark  and  distinction  in  all  departments  of  public  life: 
some  of  the  greatest  administrators,  some  of  the  greatest 
soldiers,  and,  last  but  not  least,  some  of  the  greatest 
authors,  poets,  dramatists,  and  orators  that  have  used 
the  English  language  as  a  medium.  Furthermore,  Ire- 
land is  at  last  figuring  before  the  world  as  "  a  nation 
once  again,"  as  the  poet  Davis  so  fervently  sang.  Her  na- 
tionality and  her  national  spirit  have  been  recognized 
during  the  last  twenty  years  as  they  never  were  since 
the  dajH  when  Ireland  was  the  "  island  of  saints  and 
scholars,''  the  land  of  intellectual  light  and  leading  in 
Europe;  when  it  was,  to  quote  Dr.  Johnson,  ''  the  School  of 
the  West,  the  quiet  habitation  of  sanctity  and  literature." 

hsidj  Gregor}^,  in  a  letter  addressed  to  the  writer,  while 
this  work  was  going  through  the  press,  speaking  of  the 
good  progress  that  is  being  made  in  Ireland  toward  the 
building  up  of  the  character  of  the  country,  says :  ''  Its 
dignity  has  suffered  from  persistent  caricature,  and  too 
often  b}'  the  hands  of  its  own  children.  I  am  not  a  poli- 
tician, but  I  often  say,  if  we  are  not  working  for  Home 
Rule,  we  are  preparing  for  it.  Ireland  is  looked  upon  with 
far  more  respect  by  thinkers  than  it  was  ten  years  ago,  and 
I  feel  sure  that  your  Anthology  will  do  good  work  in  this 
direction." 

The  world  has  never  yet  fully  recognized  the  fact  that 
Ireland  has  produced  a  literature  of  her  own,  fitted  to 
take  rank  with  that  of  any  other  jiation,  and  this  lit- 
erature is  far  too  important  a  contribution  to  the  sum  of 
human  knowledge  and  delight  to  be  obscured  under  a  for- 

xvii 


xviii  FOREWORD. 

eigu  name.  Because  it  has  been  so  obscured  is  oue  reason 
why  Ireland  has  not  been  looked  upon  by  thinkers  with  the 
respect  wliicli  slie  deserves;  but  this  condition  of  tilings 
will,  it  is  hoped,  be  forever  removed  by  the  publication  of 
this  work. 

]iefore  Irishmen  were  forced  to  express  themselves  in 
Euiiiish  tliey  had  a  literature  of  which  the  wealth  and  the 
^\on(ler  have  been  revealed  in  these  later  years  by  Dr. 
AMiitley  .Stokes,  Standish  Hayes  0'(irady,  Dr.  Kuno 
Meyer.  Eugene  O'Curry,  John  O'Donovan,  Miss  Eleanor 
Hull,  Lady  Gregory,  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  M.  de  Jubainville, 
and  Professors  Zummer  and  Wundlich,  and  others  too 
numerous  to  mention.  The  rich  field  of  ancient  Celtic  lite- 
raUire  lias  been  explored  by  them,  and  many  of  its  treasures 
in  translation  will  be  found  scattered  through  Volumes  I. 
to  IX.  of  this  librarv.  But  more  than  this.  In  Ireland's 
progress  toward  becoming  "  a  nation  once  again,"  her  peo- 
ple have  sought  to  make  their  native  language  a  vehicle  of 
literary  expression  once  more — with  what  success  our  tenth 
volume  shows. 

After  all,  however,  the  great  l)ulk  of  Irish  literature 
consists  of  the  contributions  of  Irishmen  and  Irislnvoraen 
to  English  literature.  For  the  first  time  they  are  given 
their  due  in  this  library,  and  Irish  people  themselves  will 
be  astonished  to  find  how  the  Irishmen  and  Irishwomen 
who  have  written  in  tlie  English  language,  and  have  never 
been  credited  with  their  v.ork  as  Irish,  but  have  ever  been 
classified  under  an  alien  name,  have  preserved  an  indi- 
vidualitj',  a  unity,  a  distinctive  characteristic,  a  national 
spirit,  and  a  racial  flavor,  which  entitle  their  work  to  a 
place  apart. 

The  continuity  of  the  Irish  genius  in  its  literature  for 
nearly  two  thousand  years  is  very  clearly  sliown  in  these 
volumes.  The  ricli,  full,  and  elaborate  vocabulary  of  the 
Irishmen  who  have  written  and  spoken  in  English  for  the 
last  two  centuries  or  so  had  its  taproots  in  the  Gaelic  of  a 
far-off  past.  This  will  at  once  be  seen  ])y  reading  the  adjec- 
tive-laden '  Descrii)tion  of  the  Sea,'  taken  from  '  The  Battle 
of  :Maglj  Lear.a,'  translated  from  the  ancient  Gaelic  by 
Eugene  O'Curry — almost  Homeric  in  its  form  and  Ti- 
tanic in  its  forceful  phrasing, — and  comparing  it  with  the 
best  of  Irisli-English  prose  and  verse,  or  even  with  the 


FOREV/ORD.  xix 

literary  efforts  of  any  modern  Irishmen.  The  same  power 
of  glowing  description,  the  same  profusion  of  cumulative 
adjectival  phrase,  the  same  simple  yet  ])old  and  powerful 
imagery,  the  same  rhythmic  sense,  will  be  found  to  under- 
lie them  all. 

The  nationality  of  Ireland  expressed  in  her  literature 
is  the  noblest  monument  she  has  reared,  and  to  exhibit  this 
monument  to  the  world  in  all  its  beauty  is  one  of  the  ob- 
jects of  this  work.  The  Irish  is  the  most  readable  liter- 
ature in  the  world;  it  is  entertaining,  amusing,  bright, 
sunny,  poetical,  tasteful,  and  it  is  written  with  an  ease  and 
a  fluency  wliicli  haA^e  been  the  salt  that  has  seasoned  the 
whole  body  of  English  literature. 

This  library  contains  in  ten  volumes  representative 
selections  from  the  works  of  Irish  writers,  ancient  and 
modern,  in  prose  and  in  verse.  It  gives  examples  of  all 
tliat  is  best,  brightest,  most  attractive,  amusing,  readable, 
and  interesting  in  their  work;  and,  while  its  contents  have 
received  the  approval  of  the  highest  and  most  fastidious 
literary  critics,  it  is,  first  and  foremost,  a  library  of  en- 
tertaining and  instructive  reading. 

Few  people  can  afford  to  have  the  works  of  the  three 
hundred  and  fifty  Irish  authors  represented  in  this  col- 
lection. Few,  indeed,  could  select  the  one  hundred  great- 
est Irish  books  from  a  catalogue.  The  Editors  have 
selected  from  the  works  of  nearly  three  hundred  and  fifty 
authors,  and  this  library  is  a  guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend  to  conduct  the  reader  through  the  wide  fields  of 
Irish  literary  lore. 

From  the  vast  storehouses  of  Irish  literature  they  have 
extracted  the  choicest  of  its  treasures,  and  have  brought 
them  within  the  reach  of  all — the  mythology,  legends, 
fables,  folk  lore,  poetry,  essays,  oratory,  history,  annals, 
science,  memoirs,  anecdotes,  fiction,  travel,  drama,  wit  and 
humor,  and  pathos  of  the  Irish  race  are  all  represented. 
This  library,  tlierefore,  focuses  the  whole  intellectuality  of 
the  Irish  people.  It  not  only  presents  a  view  of  the  lit- 
erary history  of  Ireland,  but  it  gives  also  a  series  of  his- 
toric pictures  of  the  social  developineut  of  the  people,  for 
literature  is  the  mirror  in  which  the  life  and  movements 
of  historic  periods  are  reflected. 

From  the  story  of  '  The  Hospitality  of  Cuanna's  House/ 


XX  FOREWORD. 

translated  by  Connellaii,  in  which  we  have  a  picture  of 
s(u  ial  manners  and  customs  nearly  two  thousaud  years 
ago,  down  to  the  stories  of  the  life  of  the  present  day, 
Irish  literature  is  full  of  pictures,  some  bright  and  some 
dark,  of  the  way  in  which  the  j)eople  of  Ireland  have  lived 
and  k>ved  and  fought  and  prayed  for  twenty  centuries. 

This  librarv  will  be  found  an  inexhaustible  source  of 
inspiration  to  old  and  young  alike,  an  influence  in  forming 
taste,  in  molding  character,  and  in  perpetuating  all  the 
best  qualities  associated  with  the  name  of  Irishmen;  fur- 
thermore, it  will  be  a  valued  acquisition  in  every  English- 
speaking  home,  for  the  qualities  of  the  Irish  are  those 
"which  have  made  the  chief  glories  of  English  literature. 
It  gives  every  household  a  share  in  the  treasures  with  which 
the  genius  of  the  Irish  race  has  enriched  mankind. 

While  this  work  brings  together  a  representative  selec- 
tion of  all  that  is  best  in  Irish  literature  (and  by  "  Irish 
literature  "  we  mean  the  literature  which  is  written  by 
Irish  men  and  women),  it  does  not  appeal  to  the  Irish 
alone.  Among  the  greatest  novelists,  dramatists,  orators, 
poets,  and  scientists  of  the  world.  Irishmen  are  to  be 
found,  always  vivacious,  always  lively,  always  bright,  and 
always  attractive;  therefore  this  library  presents  such  a 
body  of  representative  reading  as  has  never  before  been 
put  together.  It  is  distinctly  national  in  flavor,  quality, 
aufi  character;  it  is  entertaining  at  every  i^oint;  it  appeals 
t«»  hniiianity  on  every  side;  there  are  no  acres  of  dryasdust 
in  '  Iiiisii  LiTKRATUUE.'  Open  any  one  of  these  volumes 
where  you  will,  at  any  page,  and  there  will  be  found  some- 
thing which,  whether  it  amuses  or  instructs,  will  be  sure 
to  possess  in  the  most  eminent  degree  the  great  qualities 
of  vivid  imagination  and  readability. 

Of  the  authors  whose  names  appear  in  '  Irish  Litera- 
tire'  one  hundred  and  twenty  are  living  to-day,  or  are  of 
the  last  twenty-live  years.  This  indicates  how  fully  the 
new  movement  is  represented.  Here  will  be  found  the 
work  of  Jane  Barlow,  Stojjford  Brooke,  Shan  Bullock, 
Eg<*rton  Castle,  John  Eglinton,  A.  P.  (Jlraves,  Lady  Greg- 
ory, Ste[»h«*n  (Iwynu,  lOleanor  Hull,  Dr.  Douglas  IIy<le, 
Coul.son  Kernahan,  Seumas  MacManus,  George  Moore, 
F.  F.  Moore,  K.  B.  O'Brien,  T.  P.  O'Connor,  Standish 
O'Grady,   T.   W.   Kolleston,   G.    W.   Kussell    ("A.   E."), 


FOREWORD.  xxi 

G.  Bernard  Shaw,  Dr.  SI<!,prsoii,  the  Misses  Somerville  an<l 
]\rartin,  Dr.  Whitley  Stokes,  John  Todhiinter,  ]\rrs.  Tynau- 
ITinksou,  AVilliani  I>iitler  Yeats,  and  Sir  Horace  I'lunkett. 

To  mention  these  names  is  sullu-ieut  to  show  that  tliis 
Avork  properly  represents  the  <»reat  modern  revival  in 
Irish  intellectual  life — in  its  literature  and  art,  and  the 
drama,  as  well  as  the  great  changes  in  the  social,  moral, 
and  commercial  conditions  which  have  been  going  on  for 
the  past  twenty-five  years. 

One  of  the  most  valuable  features  in  '  Irish  Literature  ' 
is  a  series  of  special  articles  written  by  men  who  are  the 
best  qualified  to  deal  with  the  subject  assigned  to  each  of 
them.  These  special  articles  constitute  a  complete  philo- 
sophical survey  of  the  whole  field  and  embody  the  latest 
knowledge  on  the  subject  of  the  origin,  development,  and 
growth  of  the  national  literature  of  Ireland. 

Mr.  Justin  McCarthy's  article  introductory  takes  the 
reader  by  the  hand,  as  it  were,  and  genially  describes  to 
him  the  flowery  paths  along  which  he  may  wander  in  the 
pages  of  '  Irish  Literature.' 

Mr.  William  Butler  Yeats,  the  accomplished  orator  and 
poet,  who  has  left  such  a  good  impression  on  the  hearts  of 
all  Irish-American  people,  deals  with  Modern  Irish  Poetry. 
No  living  writer  is  better  qualified  to  write  on  such  a 
theme,  for  his  work  is  the  latest  and  most  fragrant  flo>Aer 
that  has  bloomed  in  the  garden  of  Irish  literature. 

Dr.  Douglas  Hyde,  President  of  the  Gaelic  League,  the 
world-famous  Irish  scholar,  poet,  and  actor,  the  greatest 
living  authority  on  the  subject,  discourses  upon  'Earl.y 
Irish  Literature,'  while  an  article  by  Dr.  George  Siger- 
son  on  '  Ireland's  Influence  on  European  Literature'  will 
be  a  revelation  to  thousands  who  have  never  considered 
Irish  literature  to  have  had  a  life  apart  from  that  of  the 
English  nation. 

Mr.  Maurice  Francis  Egan,  professor  of  English  liter- 
ature in  the  Catholic  University  at  Washington,  D.  C, 
contributes  a  valuable  analytical  and  historical  essay  on 
the  subject  of  '  Irish  Novels,'  and  a  paper  by  the  late  John 
F.  Taylor  of  the  Irish  bar,  one  of  the  greatest  orators  of 
his  day  and  generation,  gives  an  interesting  and  valuable 
appreciation  of  Irish  orators  and  oratory. 

Mr.  Michael  McDonagh,  the  Irish  journalist,  wlio  prob- 


xxii  FOmJWORD. 

ably  is  more  familiar  with  Irish  character  than  any  other 
livinii-  writer,  has  contributed  an  essay  on  '  The  Sunniness 
of  Irish  Life,'  and  Mr.  D.  J.  O'Donoghue,  the  famous 
author-]ml>lisher  of  Dublin,  has  written  on  the  inexhaust- 
ible subject  of  Irish  wit  and  humor. 

There  is  also  an  article  giviui;-  a  glance  at  Irish  his- 
tory, and  anotlier  describing  the  origin,  classification,  and 
distribution  of  the  Fairy  and  Folk  tales  of  Ireland,  by  the 
present  writer. 

The  Street  Songs  and  Ballads  and  anonymous  verse  of 
Ireland  are  a  feature  of  her  literature  which  cannot  be 
overlooked;  it  is  but  natural  that  the  land  which  was  the 
land  of  song  for  centuries  should  have  countless  unnamed 
and  forgotten  songsters.  Though  the  names  of  the  writers 
are  forgotten,  the  songs  have  lived  on  the  lips  of  the  people, 
many  of  them  coming  down  from  considerable  antiquity. 
The  songs  and  ballads  of  the  ancient  Irish  were  full  of 
love  for  country'  and  for  nature,  and  when  it  became 
treason  to  love  their  country,  the  songsters  personified  her 
in  allegorical  names,  such  as  "  The  Shan  Van  Vocht,'* 
"  The  Cool  in,"  and  numerous  others. 

^^'e  have  given,  as  a  preface  to  a  very  large  and  represen- 
tative selection  of  the  Street  Songs  and  Ballads,  a  special 
article  which  describes  the  vast  area  of  subjects  over  which 
they  ranged,  their  general  ([ualities  and  characteristics, 
and  also  some  hint  of  the  manner  of  men  and  women  who 
\\  rote  and  who  sang  them. 

As  a  final  word  on  the  latest  pliase  of  the  intellectual 
revival  in  Ireland,  Mr.  Stephen  Gwynn  contributes  a  spe- 
cial article  on  the  subject  of  the  Irish  Literary  Theater. 

Tlie  tenth  volume  contains  brief  biographies  of  ancient 
(^'eltic  authors,  translations  from  whose  works  appear  in 
tiie  previous  nine  volumes  undci-  the  names  of  the  transla- 
tors. It  also  contains,  pi'intcd  in  tlie  (Jaelic  characters  on 
the  left-hand  pages,  a  number  of  folk  tales;  ranns  (Irish 
sayings  or  proverbs)  ;  several  ancient  and  modern  Irish 
songs  of  the  people;  the  play  by  Dr.  Douglas  Hyde  entitled 
*  Th(*  Twisting  of  th(^  Ko])e,'  in  which  he  has  acted  the  lead- 
ing character  befon*  many  Trisli  au<liences;  and  two  or 
three  storio;  and  some  historical  sketches  by  nKxlern  Irish 
authors,  with  the  English  translations  o])i)osit(i^ — that  is, 
on  the  right-hand  pages.     This  volume  has  been  compiled 


FOREWORD.  xxiii 

by  the  foremost  Irish  scholars  assisted  by  Dr.  Douglas 
iJyde  ill  coiisiiltation  with  Lady  Gregory,  and  has  had  the 
advantage  of  being  seen  through  the  press  by  the  former, 
as  the  type-setting  and  the  plate-making  were  done  in 
Dublin. 

Therefore  the  ten  volumes  not  only  present  the  spirit 
of  the  Celtic  writers  before  the  dawn  of  the  seventeenth 
centur}',  but  give  examples  of  the  very  latest  literary  crea- 
tions of  the  Irish  people,  printed  in  the  Irish  tongue. 

The  work  of  assembling  the  contents  of  this  lil)rary  is 
not  that  of  one  man.  It  is  the  outcome  of  the  combined 
wisdom,  taste,  literary  judgment,  and  editorial  skill  of  a 
group  of  the  foremost  living  Irish  scholars  and  critics,  as 
v.'ill  be  seen  by  the  list  of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  forming 
the  Editorial  Board  and  Advisory  Committee. 

First  of  all,  the  wliole  field  of  Irish  literature  in  the 
English  language  from  the  seventeenth  century  down  to  our 
own  day,  including  the  works  of  the  translators  from  the 
ancient  Irish,  was  carefully  survej^ed,  and  a  mass  of  ma- 
terial was  collected  sufficient  in  quantity  for  two  or  three 
such  libraries  as  this.  Lists  of  these  authors  and  of  these 
examples  of  their  work  were  then  prepared  and  for- 
warded to  each  member  of  the  Committee  of  Selection,  who 
subjected  these  lists  to  a  most  careful  and  critical  process 
of  winnowing  and  weeding.  The  results  of  their  inde- 
pendent recensions  were  then  carefully  brought  together, 
compared,  and  combined.  A  new  list  of  authors  and  their 
works  based  upon  this  was  made,  and  this  was  in  turn 
finally  examined  and  passed  upon  by  the  Editor-in-Chief, 
Mr.  Justin  McCarthj^,  and  the  eminent  critic,  Mr.  Stephen 
Gwynn,  in  personal  conference. 

Only  by  such  effort  could  a  selection  have  been  made 
which  would  be  thoroughly  representative,  and  in  which 
the  people  Avould  have  confidence  that  it  really  represented 
the  best  work  of  the  best  Irish  writers.  Popular  taste,  na- 
tional feeling  and  sentiment,  and  scholarly  requirements 
have  been  consulted  and  considered;  and  tlie  result  is  a 
cabinet  of  literary  treasures  which  gives  a  full  and  clear 
representation  of  what  Ireland  has  done  for  the  world's 
literature. 

The  selection  has  been  made  without  bias,  religious, 
political,  or  social,  and  without  fear  or  favor.  It  would 
not,  of  course,  be  possible  to  present  examples  of  all  the 


xxiv  FOREWORD. 

Irish  orators,  nioinoirists,  divines,  scholars,  poets,  and  ro- 
niancists  in  Irish  literature.  Some  selection  had  to  be 
made.  Literary  merit  and  human  interest  have  been  the 
touchstones  employed  in  choosing  the  contents  of  the  li- 
brary; at  the  same  time  care  has  been  taken  to  avoid  any- 
thing which  could  wound  the  feelings  or  otiend  the  taste 
of  any  class  or  creed. 

After  much  thought  and  consideration,  the  alphabetical 
method  of  presenting  the  material  was  decided  on ;  that 
is,  each  author  is  presented  in  alphabetical  order,  ranging 
from  Mrs.  Alexander  to  AV.  15.  Yeats.  The  examples  of 
the  work  of  each  author  are  prefaced  by  a  biography 
giving  the  leading  facts  of  his  or  her  career,  a  literary 
appreciation  of  his  or  her  writings,  and  a  practically  com- 
plete bibliography.  In  compiling  these  biographies  the 
best  and  most  authentic  sources  were  drawn  upon,  and  in 
many  cases  literary  appreciations  have  been  written  by 
well-known  critics. 

Among  tl:c  numerous  illustrations  in  black-and-white 
and  in  color  are  facsimiles  of  the  ancient  Irish  illuminated 
manuscripts;  some  sour(e  illustrations,  such  as  ancient 
prints,  an<l  facsimiles  of  l)roadsides  or  street  ballads;  por- 
traits of  the  men  and  women  whose  work  aj>pears  in  the 
library,  vie\\s  of  places  and  objects  in  the  country,  and  of 
such  scenery  and  incidents  as  may  help  to  elucidate  the 
articles. 

In  the  transliteration  of  the  Irish  words,  place  names, 
etc.,  we  have  followed  the  orthography  of  the  author 
quoted,  without  attemi)ting  to  present  them  in  uniform 
manner  all  the  wav  through.  Authors  differ  in  this  mat- 
ter,  and  had  we  attempted  to  employ  a  uniform  method 
throughout  the  work,  we  should  have  given  an  unfamiliar 
look  to  many  words  and  phrases  which  have  become 
classic  by  reason  of  long  usage. 

In  the  form  of  fotjtnotes  we  have  given  translations  of 
tlie  Irish  words  and  jihrases  the  first  time  they  occur,  and 
all  these  will  be  found  arranged  ali)habetically  at  the  end 
of  the  Index,  the  scoi)e  of  which  is  fully  set  forth  in  the 
tcnlh  volume.  We  have  not,  however,  included  the  fa- 
miliar Irish  worrls  and  phrases  that  are  to  be  found  in 
ail  ordinary  dictionary. 

I'erhaps  the  earliest  decision  in  a  question  of  copyright 


FOREWORD.  XXV 

of  which  we  have  any  record  occurs  in  the  Irish  annals. 
St.  Columkille  once  borrowed  from  St.  Finnen  his  copy 
of  the  Psalms,  and  secretly  made  a  copy  for  his  own  use 
before  returning  it.  The  owner  heard  of  this  and  claimed 
both  original  and  copy.  The  borrower,  however,  refused 
to  return  the  copy  which  he  had  made,  and  they  agreed  to 
refer  the  matter  to  Dermot,  the  King  of  Ireland.  He,  after 
hearing  both  sides,  gave  his  decision  thus: — 

"To  every  cow  belongeth  her  little  offspring-cow  ;  so  to  every 
book  belongeth  its  littlo  offspring-book  ;  the  book  thou  bast  copied 
without  permission,  O  Columba,  I  award  to  Finnan." 

Nothing  herein  that  is  copyrighted  has  been  copied  with- 
out the  permission  of  the  owner,  and  thanks  are  due  to 
the  publisiiers  who  have  kindly  granted  permission  to  use 
extracts  from  copyrighted  works  (which  are  protected  by 
the  official  notification  on  the  page  Avhere  the  extract  ap- 
pears) ;  to  the  various  members  of  the  Editorial  Board  and 
our  Advisory  Committee,  who  have  co-operated  in  the 
work  with  enthusiastic  fervor,  placing  all  their  store  of 
knowledge  of  matters  Irish  at  our  disposal ;  to  Mr.  John 
D.  Crimmins  of  New  York;  to  Mr.  Francis  O'Neill  of 
Chicago;  to  Messrs.  Ford  of  The  Iri^ih  World;  to  Mr. 
Charles  Johnston,  President  of  the  Irish  Literary  So- 
ciety of  New  York ;  to  Mr.  Joseph  I.  C.  Clarke  of  The  New 
York  Herald;  to  Mr.  T.  E.  Lonergan  of  The  York  World; 
to  Professor  J.  Brander  Matthews  of  Columbia  University; 
to  Professor  W.  P.  Trent  of  Columbia  University;  to 
Professor  F.  N.  Robinson  of  Harvard;  to  Mr.  H.  S.  Pan- 
coast;  to  Mr.  H.  S.  Krans;  to  Mr.  D.  J.  O'Donoghue 
of  Dublin;  to  Mr.  George  Pvussell  ("A.  E.") ;  to  Mr.  W. 
P.  Ryan  of  London — for  much  helpful  advice  and  sug- 
gestion, and  to  Mr.  S.  J.  Richardson  of  The  Gael,  who  has 
placed  at  our  disposal  the  treasures  of  his  '  Encyclopedia 
Hibernica '  and  materials  for  illustration,  and  has  allowed 
free  use  of  the  material  in  the  columns  of  his  magazine. 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  T-. 


Irish  Literature. — JuMln  McCarthy 

Foreword. — Charles   ^^elsh 

"  A.  E."     See  Russell,  G.  W. 

Alexander,  Cecil  Frances 
The  Burial  of  Moses 
There  is  a  green  hill  far  a 
The  Siege  of  Derry 

Alexander,  Willlvm  . 
Inscription 
Very  Far  Away 
Burial  at  Sea,  fr. 
Hero ' 


way 


<■  r\ 


The 


Death   of 


Allingham,  William 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly 

Abbey  Asaroe     . 

Across  the  Sea   . 

Four  ducks  on  a  pond 

The  Lover  and  Birds 

Among  the  Heather 

The  Ban-Shee    . 

The  Fairies 

The  Leprecaun,  or  Fairy  Slioeni 

A  Dream    . 

The  Ruined  Chapel 

Ar:mstrong,  Edmund  John 
The  Blind  Student 
Adieu 
From  Fionnuala 


Pilgrims 


akei 


•lU 


Arctic 


PAfSB 

vii 
xvii 

1 
1 
3 
3 

8 
8 
9 

10 

11 

12 

13 

14 

15 

15 

16 

17 

18 

20 

21 
oo 

24 
24 
25 
25 

26 


XXVll 


xxviii  CONTEXTS. 

PAGE 

Atkinson,  Sarah 28 

Women  in  Ireland  in  Penal  Days       .         .         .28 

AzARiAS,  Brother.     See  Mullaney,  Patrick  Francis. 


Dall,  Sir  Robert  Stawell 

The  Distances  of  the  Stars,   fr.   '  The   Starry 

Heavens ' 

A\Iiat  the  Stars  are  Made  Of,  fr.  '  The  Starry 
Heavens ' 

Danim,  John 

An  Adventure  in  Slievenamon,  fr.  '  The  Peep 

o'  Day ' 

Soj^garth  Aroon 

Aileen         ....... 

He  said  that  he  was  not  our  brother 

Banim,  ^Michael 

The  English  Academy,  fr.  '  Father  Connell.' 
Lynch  l^aw  on  Vinegar  Hill,  fr,  *  The  Croppy  ' 
The  Stolen  Sheep 

Barlow,  Jane 

An  Eviction,  fr.  ^  Herself '  in  '  Irish  Idvlls.' 
The  Murphys'  Supper  .... 


36 

3G 

41 

U 

46 
56 
57 

58 

59 

60 
76 

85 

98 

98 

103 


Misther  Denis's  Return,  fr.  '  Th'  Quid  Master'  114 
The  Flittin^r  of  the  Fairies,  fr.  'The  End  of 
Elfintown  '.......  116 

Barrett,  Eaton  Stannard 119 

]\Iodern  Medievalism 119 

Montraorenci  and  Cherubina,  fr.  '  The  Heroine'  123 

Barrinoton,  Sir  Jonah 126 

Pulpit,  Bar,  and  Parliamentary  Eloquence,  fr. 

'  Personal  Sketches  '.'....  127 
The  Seven  Baronets,  fr.  '  Personal  Sketches  '  .129 
Irish  r;  en  try  and  their  Retainers,  fr.  '  Personal 

Sketches' 138 

The  1' ire-Eaters,  fr.  '  Personal  Sketches'  .         .  141 


CONTEXTS.  xxix 


Barky,  :Miciiael  Joseph 


rr 


The  Sword 


'f~> 


The  Massacre  at  Drojiheda       ....  150 

.  151 

.  156 
fr.  'The  New  An- 

.  150 

.  105 


The  French  Revolution 

Barry,  William  Francis    . 

A  Meeting  of  Anarchists 

tigoue '   . 

Bell,  Robert 


PAGE 

.  140 
.   140 


Gloucester  Lodge,  fr.  '  The  Life  of  Canning  '     .  105 

Berkeley,  Bishop 173 

True  Pleaures 174 

A  Glimpse  of  his  Country-FIouse  Near  New- 
port, fr.  '  Alciphron,  or  the  Minute  Philoso- 
pher '........  175 

View  from  Honeyman's  Hill,  fr.  '  Alciphron,  or 
the  Minute  Philosopher '         .         .         .         .  170 

Extracts  from  '  The  Querist '     .         .         .         .  177 

On  the  Prospect  of  Planting  Arts  and  Learning 
in  America      .......  ISO 

Bickerstaff,  Isaac 182 

Mr.  Mawworm,  fr, '  The  Hypocrite '  .         .         .  182 
There  was  a  jolly  miller  once,  fr,  '  Love  in  a 

Village '           .......  185 

Two  Songs,  fr.  '  Thomas  and  Sally,  or  the  Sail- 
or's  Return '  .         .         .         .         .         .180 

What  are  outward  forms?        ....  187 

Hope            ....                ...  187 

Blake,  Mary  Elizabeth 180 

The  Dawning  o'  the  Year 180 

The  First  Steps 100 

Blessington,  Countess  of 102 

Journal  of  a  Lady  of  Fashion     ,         .         ,         .  103 
Found  Out,  fr,  '  Confessions  of  an  Elderly  Gen- 
tleman '    '.         .200 

The  Princess  Talleyrand  as  a  Critic,  fr.  '  The 
Idler  in  France'' 212 


XXX 


cox  TENTS. 


Blundell,  Mus.  (M.  E.  Fuancis) 
111  ISt.  l»at rick's  Ward 
Father  Lalur  is  Promoted,  fr.  '  Miss  Erin 

Bodkin,  Matthias  M'Donnkll   . 

The  Lord  Lieutenant's  Adventure,  fr.  '  1 
Puneh '     


oteen 


BouciCAULT,  Dion 

Ladv  Gay  fc?panker,  fr.  '  London  Assurance 
ISong 

Boyd,  Thomas 

To  the  Leanan  Sidhe  .... 

Boyle,  John,  Eaul  of  Cork 

►Swift  as  a  Pamphleteer  . 

Boyle,  "Willlvm 

The  Cow-Charmer,  fr.  '  A  Kish  of  Brogues 
Philandering      ..... 

Brenan,  Joseph 

Come  to  me,  dearest 

Brigid.     See  Katherine  M.  Murphy. 

Brooke,  Charlotte 

Ode  on  his  Ship,  fr.  the  Irish  of  Manriee  Fitz- 
gerald  

Brooke,  Henry 

A  Gentleman 

Gone  to  Death,  fr.  '  The  Earl  of  Essex  ' 

Brooke,  Stopeord  Augustus 

Frederick  A\'il]iam  IJoliertson,  fr. '  Life  and  Let- 
ters of  !•'.  \y.  Kobertson ' 
The  Earth  and  Man    .... 

A  Moment  ...... 

Desert  is  Life      . 

Brother  Azarl\s.     See  :Mullaney,  Patrick  Francis. 

Brougil\m,  John 

Ned  Geraghty's  Luck  .... 


PAGE 

215 
215 
225 

232 

232 

252 
252 
257 

258 
258 

260 
260 

264 
264 
277 

278 
278 


280 

280 

284 

285 
288 

291 

291 
299 
300 
300 

301 
301 


CONTENTS. 


XXXI 


Browne,  Frances 

The  Story  of  Childe  Cliaritv 
AVliat  hath  Time  taken?    . 

Browne,  John  Ross    . 

The  History  of  my  Horse  Saladin,  fr.  '  Yusef ' 
Bryce,  James      .        .        „        . 

National    Characteristics    as    Mohling   Pul)lic 
Opinion,  fr,  the  'American  Commonwealth' 
The  Position  of  Women  in  the  United  States, 
fr.  the  '  American  Commonwealth  ' 


England  and   Ireland,   fr, 
Irish  History ' 

Buckley,  William 
Inniscarra 


Tw 


o  Centuries  of 


Buggy,  Kevin  T. 

The  Saxon  Shilling 

Bullock,  Shan  F. 

The   Rival    Swains 

Burke,  Edmund  . 

On  American  Taxation 

On  Conciliation  witli  America 

Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord         ..... 

Impeachment   of   Warren    Hastings 

Chatham    and    Towns-hend         .         .         .         . 

The  Duties  of  a  Representative 

Some  Wise  and  Witty  Sayings  of  Burke     . 

Burke,  Thomas  N 

A  Nation's  History,  fr.  a  Lecture  on  the  '  His- 
tory of  Ireland ' 

National  Music,  fr.  a  Lecture  on  '  The  National 
Music    of    Ireland ' 

Burton,  Richard  Francis 

The  Preternatural  in  Fiction,  fr.  '  The  Book  of 

a  Thousand  Niglits  and  a  Night ' 
A  Journey  in  Disguise,  fr.  '  Personal  Narrative 

of  a  Pilgrimage  to  El  ^ledinah  '      .         .         . 

I  M      ' '  '-  , 


PAGE 

313 
311 
321 

323 
323 

330 
331 
343 

340 

351 
351 

358 
358 

3(10 
3G0 

3G9 
373 
37G 
379 
383 
391 
394 
396 

398 

398 

400 
403 

404 

408 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  VOLUME  L 


p\r,K 


JUSTIN  McCarthy,  M.  P Frontispiece 

Editor-In-Chief  of  Irish  Literature. 
Photogravure  from  a  portrait  from  life. 

ON  THE  OLD  SOD xvii 

"  The  Irish  Farmer  in  Contemplation,"  by  William  Mc- 
Grath.  From  the  painting  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum 
of  Fine  Art,  New  York. 

This  famous  picture  of  a  familiar  Irish  scene,  painted  by  an 
Irishman,  is  a  conspicuous  and  favorite  object  in  our  national 
collection. 

LONDONDERRY tv' 

From  a  photograph. 

The  walls  of  Derry — tlie  maiden  city,  its  fine  Gothic  cathe- 
dral, and  the  Doric  column  erected  to  the  inemorj'  of  the  Rev. 
G.  Walker  are  full  of  interest.  The  tower  is  of  great  antiquity 
and  has  often  suffered  the  effects  of  war,  notably  when  it  was 
fruitlessly  bosieged  by  King  James  from  Dec,  1688,  to  Aug., 
1689.     This  picture  shows — 

"  .  .  .  .  the  water  runnins:  from  the  green  hills  of  Tyrone. 
Where  the  woods  of  Mountjoy  quiver  above  the  changeful  river." 

— Mrs.  Alexander. 

JOHN  BANIM 44 

From  an  old  engraving. 

JANE  BARLOW 98 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  1904  by  J.  F.  Geoghegan  of 
Dublin. 

DROGHEDA 150 

From  a  photograph. 

This  famous  old  town  stands  on  both  sides  of  the  i-iver  Boyne. 
It  has  been  the  scene  of  many  wars  and  niucli  bloodshed.  The 
story  of  the  awful  massacre  under  Cromwell  is  vividly  told  by 
Father  Denis  Murphy  in  Volume  VI.  of  '  Irish  Literature.' 

THE  COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON 192 

From  the  painting  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence. 

DION  BOUCICAULT 252 

In  tho  character  of  "  Daddy  O'Dowd"  in  his  play  of  that 
name.     From  a  i;)hotogrnph. 

XXX  HI 


XXXIV  ZTST  07''  ILLUSTJiATIOXS. 

PAGK 

THE  WONDERFUL  CHAIR 314 

From  a  drawing  after  the  paintinp:by  Mrs.  Seymour  Lucas, 
which  told  the  "  Story  of  Childe  Charity." 

THE   RIGHT  HON.  JAMES    BRYCE 330 

From  a  photograph  by  J.  Caswell  Smith  in  London,  taken  in 
18i)l  for  the  Alpine  Club. 

EDMUND  BURKE 369 

From  an  engraving  by  S.  Freedman  of  Dublin. 

BURKE'S    STATUE   IN   TPIE    COURTYARD   OF   TRINITY 

COLLEGE,   DUBLIN 397 

From  a  photograph. 

At  eitlier  side  of  tlie  ])riii(ui);il  entrance  to  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  are  the  statues  of  Burke  and  Goldsmith,  both  by  John 
Uenry  Foley. 


o    •   f      »         •  > 


IRISH    LITERATURE. 


CECIL    FRANCES    ALEXANDER. 

(1818—1895.) 

Mrs.  Alexander  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1818  and  died  in  1895. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  Major  John  Humphreys.  She  came  early 
under  the  religious  influence  of  Dr.  Hook,  the  Dean  of  Chichester, 
and  subsequently  of  John  Keble,  who  edited  her  '  Hymns  for  Little 
Children.' 

In  1850  she  married  Wilh'am  Alexander,  the  protestant  Archbishop 
of  Armagh  and  Primate  of  all  Ireland,  who  after  her  death  collected 
and  edited  her  poetical  works. 

As  a  writer  of  hymns  and  religious  verse  she  has  enjoyed  a  wide 
reputation,  and  she  has  written  some  vigorous  poetry  on  secular 
subjects.  Her  poem  on  '  The  Siege  of  Derry  '  is  a  fine  example  of 
her  mastery  of  language  and  of  rhythm. 

Gounod  remarked  that  the  words  '  There  is  a  green  hill  far  away ' 
were  so  harmonious  and  rhythmic  that  they  seemed  to  set  them- 
selves to  music.  When  her  '  Burial  of  Moses '  appeared,  anony- 
mously, in  1856,  in  the  Dublin  University  Magazine,  Tennyson 
declai-ed  it  to  be  one  of  the  few  poems  by  a  living  author  that  he 
would  care  to  have  written.  Her  poems  have  been  published  with 
an  introduction  by  her  husband  under  the  title  '  Poems  of  the  late 
Mrs.  Alexander.' 

THE    BURIAL    OF    MOSES. 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain,  on  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
In  a  vale,  in  the  land  of  Moab,  there  lies  a  lonely  grave ; 
And  no  man  knows  that  sepulchre,  and  no  man  saw  it  e'er ; 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod,  and  laid  the  dead  man 
there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral  that  ever  passed  on  earth ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  trampling,  or  saw  the  train  go  forth — 
Noiselessly,  as  the  Daylight  comes  back  when  Night  is  done. 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek  grows  into  the  great 
sun 

1 


2  77?/.s'/7    I/iTERATlRE. 

Noiselessly,  as  the  S})riiifj-tiiiie  her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 
And  j'.il  the  .trees  tui  aU  Jli.e  lulls  open  their  lliousand  leaves; 
So.  without  Hotiiurof  music,  or  voice  of  tlioni  that  wept. 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain's  crown,  the  great  procession 
swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle,  on  gray  Beth-Peor's  height, 
Out  of  his  lonely  eyrie,  looked  on  the  wondrous  sight; 
Perchance  the  lion  stalking  still  shuns  that  hallowed  spot. 
For  beast   and    bird   have  seen   and    heard   that   which   man 
knoweth  not ! 

But  when  the  Warrior  dieth,  his  comrades  in  the  war. 
With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drum,  follow  his  funeral  car; 
They  show  the  banners  taken,  they  tell  his  battles  won, 
And    after   him    lead   his   masterless   steed,   while   peals   the 
minute-gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land  we  lay  the  Sage  to  rest, 

And   give   the   Bard   an    honored  place,   with   costly    marble 

drest, — 
In  the  great  minster  transept,  where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  organ  rings,  and  the  sweet  choir  sings,  along  the 

emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  Iho  truest  warrior  that  ever  buckled  sword; 
This  the  most  gifted  poet  that  ever  breathed  a  word; 
And  never  eartli's  i)hilosoj)her  traced  with  his  golden  pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage  as  he  wrote  down  for 
men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor, — the  hill-side  for  a  pall? 

To  lie  in  state,  \\liile  angels  wait,  with  stars  for  taj)ers  tall? 

And  the  dark  rock-j)ines,  like  tossing  jilumes,  over  his  bier  to 

wave! 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land,  to  lay  him  in  the 

grave ! 

In  that  strange  grave  without  a  name, — whence  his  uncolTined 

day 
Shall  break  again,  O  wondrous  thought!  before  the  judgment 

day, 
And  stand,  with  glory  wrapt  around,  on  the  hills  he  never  trod, 
And  sj)eak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life,  with  the  incarnate 

Son  of  God. 


CECIL    FRANCES    ALEXANDER.  3 

O  lonely  grave  in  Moab's  land!  O  dark  Beth-Peor's  hill! 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours,  and  teach  them  to  be 

still. 
God  hath  his  mysteries  of  j>race,  ways  that  we  cannot  tell; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  hidden  sleep  of  him  he  loved  so 

well. 


THERE    IS    A    GREEN    HILL. 

There  is  a  green  hill  far  away, 

Without  a  city  wall. 
Where  the  dear  Lord  was  crucified, 

Who  died  to  save  us  all. 

W^e  may  not  know,  we  cannot  tell 
What  pains  He  had  to  bear, 

But  we  believe  it  was  for  us 

He  hung  and  suffered  there. 

He  died  that  we  might  be  forgiven. 
He  died  to  make  us  good, 

That  we  might  go  at  last  to  heaven, 
Saved  by  His  precious  blood. 

There  was  no  other  good  enough 
To  pay  the  jjrice  of  sin ; 

He  only  could  unlock  the  gate 
Of  heaven  and  let  us  in. 

O  dearly,  dearly  has  He  loved. 
And  we  must  love  Him  too. 

And  trust  in  His  redeeming  blood. 
And  trv  His  works  to  do. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    DERRY. 

O  my  daughter!  lead  me  forth  to  the  bastion  on  the  north, 
Let  me  see  the  water  running  from  the  green  hills  of  Tyrone, 

Where  the  woods  of  Mountjoy  quiver  above  the  changeful  river. 
And  the  silver  trout  lie  hidden  in  the  pools  that  I  have 
known. 


4  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Tlioi-e  I  wooed  voiir  iiiothei-,  dear  I  in  llio  days  that  are  so  near 
To  the  old   man   who   lies   dying   in   this   sore-teleaguered 
place : 

For  time's  long  years  may  sever,  but  love  that  liveth  ever 
Calls  back  the  early  rapture — lights  again  the  angel  face. 

Ah,  well!  she  lieth  still  on  our  wall-engirdled  hill. 

Our  own  Cathedral  holds  her  till  God  shall  call  His  dead; 
And   till*  I'salter's  swell  and  wailing,  and  the  cannon's  loud 
assailing 
And  the  preacher's  voice  and  blessing,  pass  unheeded  o'er 
her  head. 

'T  was  the  Lord  who  gave  the  word  when  His  people  drew  the 
sword 

For  the  freedom  of  the  present,  for  the  future  that  awaits. 
O  child!  thou  must  remember  that  bleak  day  in  December 

When  the  'Prentice-Uoys  of  Derry  rose  up  and  shut  the  gates. 

There  was  tumult  in  the  street,  and  a  rush  of  many  feet — 
There  was  discord  in  the  Council,  and  Lundv  turned  to  flv, 

For  the  man  had  no  assurance  of  Ulstermen's  endurance, 

Nor  the  strength  of  him  who  trusteth  in  the  arm  of  God  Most 
High. 

These  limbs,  that  now  are  weak,  were  strong  then,  and  thy 
cheek 
Held  roses  that  were  red  as  any  rose  in  June — 
That  now  are  wan,  my  daughter!  as  the  light  on  the  Foyle 
water 
When  all  the  sea  and  all  the  land  are  white  beneath  the 
moon. 

Then  the  foemen  gathered  fast — we  could  see  them  marching 
j)ast — 
The    Irish   from  his  barren  hills,  the  Frenchman  from  his 
wars, 
With   their  banners  bravely  beaming,  and  to  our  eyes  their 
seeming 
Was  fearful  as  a  locust  band,  and  countless  as  the  stars. 

And  they  bound  us  with  a  cord  from  the  harbor  to  the  ford, 
And  they  raked  us  with  their  cannon,  and  sallying  was  hot; 

But  our  trust  was  still  unshaken,  though  (yulmore  fort  was 
taken. 
And  they  wrote  our  men  a  letter,  and  they  sent  it  in  a  shot. 


CECIL    FRANCES   ALEXANDER.  5 

They  were  soft  words  that  they  spoke,  how  we  need  not  fear 
their  yoke. 
And  they  pleaded  by  our  homesteads,  and  by  our  children 
small, 
And  our  women   fair  and  tender;   but  we  answered:     "No 
surrender ! " 
And  we  called  on  God  Almighty,  and  we  went  to  man  the 
wall. 

There  was  wrath  in  the  French  camp;  we  could  hear  their 
captain's  stamp. 

And  Rosen,  with  his  hand  on  his  crossed  hilt,  swore 
That  little  town  of  Derry,  not  a  league  from  Culmore  ferry, 

Should  lie  a  heaj)  of  ashes  on  the  Foyle's  green  shore. 

Like  a  falcon  on  her  perch,  our  fair  Cathedral  Church 
Above  the  tide-vext  river  looks  eastward  from  the  bay — 

Dear  namesake  of  Saint  Columb,  and  each  morning,  sweet 
and  solemn. 
The  bells,  through  all  the  tumult,  have  called  us  in  to  pray. 

Our  leader  speaks  the  prayer — the  captains  all  are  there — 
His  deep  voice  never  falters,  though  his  look  be  sad  and 
grave 

On  the  women's  pallid  faces,  and  the  soldiers  in  their  places, 
And  the  stones  above  our  brothers  that  lie  buried  in  the  nave. 

They  are  closing  round  us  still  by  the  river;  on  the  hill 

You  can  see  the  white  pavilions  round  the  standard  of  their 
chief ; 
But  the  Lord  is  up  in  heaven,  though  the  chances  are  uneven, 
Though  the  boom  is  in  the  river  whence  we  looked  for  our 
relief. 

And  the  faint  hope  dies  away  at  the  close  of  each  long  day, 
As  we  see  the  eyes  grow  lusterless,  the  pulses  beating  low ; 

As  we  see  our  children  languish.     Was  ever  martyr's  anguish. 
At  the  stake  or  in  the  dungeon,  like  this  anguish  that  we 
know? 

With  the  foemen's  closing  line,  while  the  English  make  no  sign. 
And  the  daily  less'ning  ration,  and  the  fall  of  stagg'ring 
feet, 


6  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

And  the  wailing  low  and  fearful,  and  the  women,  stern  and 
tearful. 
Si)eaking  bravely  to  their  husbands  and  their  lovers  in  the 
street. 

There  was  trouble  in  the  air  when  we  met  this  day  for  prayer, 
And  the  joyous  July  morning  was  heavy  in  our  eyes; 

Our  arms  were  by  the  altar  as  we  sang  aloud  the  Psalter, 
And  listened  in  the  pauses  for  the  enemy's  surprise. 

"  Praise  the  Lord  God   in  the  height,  for  the  glory  of  His 

might !  " 
It  ran  along  the  arches  and  it  went  out  to  the  town : 
"  In  His  strength  He  hath  arisen,  He  hath  loosed  the  souls  in 

]»rison. 
The  wronged  one  He  hath  righted,  and  raised  the  fallen-down." 

And  the  preacher's  voice  was  bold  as  he  rose  up  then  and  told 
Of  the  triumi)li  of  the  righteous,  of  the  patience  of  the  saints, 
And  the  hope  of  God's  assistance,  and  the  greatness  of  resist- 
ance. 
Of  the  trust  that  never  wearies  and  the  heart  that  never 
faints. 

Where  the  river  joins  the  brine,  canst  thou  see  the  ships  in 

line? 
And  the  plenty  of  our  craving  just  beyond  the  cruel  boom? 
Through  the  dark  mist  of  the  firing  canst  thou  see  the  masts 

as})iring. 
Dost  thou  think  of  one  who  loves  thee  on  that  ship  amidst  the 

gloom? 

She  was  weary,  she  was  wan,  but  she  climbed  the  rampart  on, 
And  she  looked  along  the  water  where  the  good  ships  lay 
afar : 

"Oh!  I  see  on  either  border  their  cannon  ranged  in  order 
And  the  boom  across  the  river,  and  the  waiting  men-of-war. 

'•  There  's  death  in  ovovy  hand  that  holds  a  lighted  brand, 

liul  the  gallant  little  Mountjoy  comes  bravely  to  the  front. 
Now,  God  of  I'.attles,  hear  us!     J^et  that  good  ship  draw  near 
us. 
Ah!  the  brands  are  at  the  touch-holes — will  she  bear  the 
cannon's  brunt? 


Y^in:^n'/!ociMOJ 

^omarn  sdi  tunuh 

-Joiq  eiflT     .q85t  ,:taf':30A  oJ  ,88.^ 


LONDONDERRY 

From  a  photograph 

The  walls  of  Derry — the  maiden  city — its  fine  Gothic 
cathedral,  and  the  Doric  column  erected  to  the  memory 
of  the  Rev.  G.  Walker,  are  full  of  interest.  The  tower  is 
of  great  antiquity  and  has  often  suffered  the  effects  of 
war;  notably  when  it  was  fruitlessly  besieged  by  King 
James  from  December,  1688,  to  August,  1689.  This  pict- 
ure shows: 

"...  the  water  running  from  the  green  hills  of  Tyrone, 
Where  the  woods  of  Mountjoy  quiver  above  the  changeful  river." 

— Mrs.  Alexander, 


CECIL    FRANCES   ALEXANDER.  7 

"She  makes  a  forward  dash.     Hark  I  hark!  (he  thunder-crash! 

O  father,  they  have  caught  her — she  is  lying  on  the  shore. 
Another  crash  like  thunder — will  it  tear  her  ribs  asunder? 

No,  no  I  llie  shot  has  freed  her — she  is  floating  on  once  more. 

"  She  pushes  her  white  sail  through  the  bullets'  leaden  hail — 
Now  blessings  on  her  captain  and  on  her  seamen  bold! — 

Crash !  crash !  the  boom  is  broken ;   1  can  see  my  true  love's 
token — 
A  lily  in  his  bonnet,  a  lily  all  of  gold, 

"  She  sails  up  to  the  town,  like  a  queen  in  a  white  gown ; 

Red  golden  are  her  lilies,  true  gold  are  all  her  men. 
Now    the    Phoenix    follows    after — I    can    hear   the    women's 
laughter, 

And  the  shouting  of  the  soldiers,  till  the  echoes  ring  again." 

She  has  glided  from  the  wall,  on  her  lover's  breast  to  fall. 
As  the  white  bird  of  the  ocean  drops  down  into  the  wave; 

And  the  bells  are  madly  ringing,  and  a  hundred  voices  singing, 
And  the  old  man  on  the  bastion  has  joined  the  triumph 
stave : 

"  Sing  ye  praises  through  the  land ;  the  Lord  with  His  right 
hand. 

With  His  mighty  arm  hath  gotten  Himself  the  victory  now. 
He  hath  scattered  their  forces,  both  the  riders  and  thedr  horses. 

There  is  none  that  tighteth  for  us,  O  God!  but  only  Thou." 


WILLTAM   ALEXANDER. 

(1824  ) 

William  Alexander  was  born  at  Derry  in  1824,  and  educated  at 
Tunbridge  and  Oxford,  wbere  he  received  the  degrees  of  D.D.  and 
D.C.L.  In  1850  he  married  Miss  Cecil  Frances  Humphreys,  who 
was  destined  to  succeed  in  winning  distinction  for  her  new  name. 
After  holding  cures  at  Upper  Falum  and  at  Strabane  he  became,  in 
1867,  Bishop  of  Deiuy  and  Raphoe,  Archbishop  of  Armagh  in  1896, 
and  in  1897  was  called  to  the  Primacy  of  all  Ireland.  He  has  pub- 
lished '  The  Death  of  Jacob,'  1858;  'Specimens,  Poetical  and  Crit- 
ical,' 1867;  'Lyrics  of  Life  and  Liglit'  (by  W.  A.  and  others), 
1878;  'St.  Augustine's  Holiday,' 1886.  Although  it  was  as  a  poet 
that  he  first  became  known  in  the  intellectual  world,  the  life  and 
duties  of  a  churchman  were  his  first  occupation.  The  very  titles  of 
his  prose  works  testify  to  this — as,  for  example,  '  The  Witness  of 
the  Psalms  to  Christ,'  '  Leading  Ideas  of  the  Gospels,'  '  Redux 
Crucis,'  and  others. 

For  a  long  time  his  poems  were  not  collected  in  accessible  form. 
The  first  volume  in  wliich  his  poetic  Avritings  were  bound  together 
took  the  shape  of  'Specimens,'  published  in  obedience  to  the  de- 
mands of  a  special  occasion.  In  1853  he  wi'ote  the  ode  in  honor  of  the 
then  Lord  Derby's  installation,  and  in  1860  gained  the  prize  for  a 
sacred  poem,  '  The  Waters  of  IBabylon.'  In  1867  he  was  a  candi- 
date for  the  professorship  of  poetry  in  Oxford;  he  was  defeated  by 
Sir  F.  H.  Doyle  after  a  close  contest. 

Dr.  Alexander  is  eminent  as  a  pulpit  orator;  and  there  are  few 
preachers  of  his  church  "who  have  such  power  of  poetic  imagery  and 
graceful  expression.  He  is  a  frequent  contributor  to  ecclesiastic 
literature.  His  cultivated  imagination,  his  feeling  for  the  glory  of 
Nature,  his  rich  but  never  overloaded  rhetoric,  and  the  occasional 
strains  of  a  wistful  pathos  which  reveal  a  sensitive  human  spirit — 
all  these  qualities  make  his  contribution  to  Irish  literature  one  of 
high  worth  and  distinction. 


INSCRIPTION 

ON    THE     STATUE     ERECTED     TO     CAPTAIN     BOYD     IN     ST.     PATKICK's 

CATHEDRAL,    DUBLIN. 

Oh!  in  the  quiet  haven,  safe  for  aye, 
If  lost  to  us  in  i)ort  one  stormy  dny, 
I'ornc  with  a  juiblic  jjoinp  by  just  decree, 
Heroic  sailor!  from  that  fatal  sea, 
A  city  vowH  this  marble  unto  thee. 

8 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER. 

And  here,  in  this  calm  place,  where  never  din 
Of  earth's  great  waterfioods  sliall  enter  in, 
AVhere  to  our  human  hearts  two  thoughts  are  given- 
One  Christ's  self-sacrifice,  the  other  Heaven — 
Here  it  is  meet  for  grief  and  love  to  grave 
The  rhrist-taught  bravery  that  died  to  save, 
The  life  not  lost,  but  found  beneath  the  wave. 


VERY    FAR    AWxVY. 

One  touch  there  is  of  magic  white, 
Surpassing  southern  mountain's  snow 

That  to  far  sails  the  dying  light 

Lends,  where  the  dark  ships  onward  go 

Upon  the  golden  highway  broad 

That  leads  up  to  the  isles  of  God. 

One  touch  of  light  more  magic  yet, 
Of  rarer  snow  'neath  moon  or  star, 

Where,  with  her  graceful  sails  all  set. 
Some  happy  vessel  seen  afar, 

As  if  in  an  enchanted  sleep 

Steers  o'er  the  tremulous  stretching  deep. 

O  ship !  O  sail !  far  must  ye  be 

Ere  gleams  like  that  upon  ye  light. 

O'er  golden  spaces  of  the  sea, 

From  mysteries  of  the  lucent  night, 

Such  touch  comes  never  to  the  boat 

Wherein  across  the  waves  we  float. 

O  gleams,  more  magic  and  divine. 
Life's  whitest  sail  ye  still  refuse, 

And  flying  on  before  us  shine 

Upon  some  distant  bark  ye  choosCo 

By  night  or  day,  across  the  spray, 

That  sail  is  very  far  away. 


10  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

BURIAL    AT    SEA. 

Lines  from  '  The  Death  of  an  Arctic  Hero.' 

How  shnll  we  biirv  liiiii? 

Wliei-e  shall  we  leave  the  old  man  lying? 

With  music  in  the  distance  dying — dying, 

Among  the  arches  of  the  Abbey  grand  and  dim, 

There  if  we  might,  we  would  bury  him; 

And  comrades  of  the  sea  sliould  bear  the  pall; 

And  the  great  organ  should  let  rise  and  fall 

The  requiem  of  Mozart,  the  Dead  March  in  Saul — 

Then,  silence  all  I 
And  yet  far  grander  will  we  bury  him. 
Strike  the  ship-bell  slowly — slowly — slowly! 
Sailors!  trail  the  colors  half-mast  high; 
Leave  him  in  the  face  of  God  most  holy, 
Underneath  the  vault  of  Arctic  sky. 
Let  the  long,  long  darkness  wrap  him  round, 
By  the  long  sunlight  be  his  forehead  crowned. 
Ff>r  cathedral  panes  ablaze  with  stories. 
For  the  tajicrs  in  the  nave  and  choir, 
Give  him  lights  auroral — give  him  glories 
Mingled  of  the  rose  and  of  the  fire. 
Let  the  wild  winds,  like  chief  mourners,  walk. 
Let  the  stars  burn  o'er  his  catafahpie. 
Hush  I  for  the  breeze,  and  the  white  fog's  swathing  sweep, 
I  cannot  hear  the  simple  service  read; 
Was  it  "earth  to  earth,"  the  captain  said, 
()v  "  we  commit  his  body  to  the  deep, 
Till  seas  give  up  their  dead"  ? 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 

(1824—1889.) 

William  Allingham  was  born  in  1824,  at  Ballyshannon,  County 
Donegal,  a  place  of  primitive  and  kindly  folk — in  a  country  of 
haunting  loveliness  which  is  often  referred  to  in  his  poems.  He 
was  educated  at  his  native  place,  and  at  the  age  of  fourteen  became 
a  clerk  in  the  bank,  of  which  his  father  was  manager.  In  this 
employment  he  passed  seven  years,  during  which  his  chief  delight 
was  in  reading  and  in  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  foreign  literature. 
He  then  found  employment  in  the  Customs  Office,  and  after  two 
years'  preliminary  training  at  Belfast  he  returned  to  Ballyshannon 
as  Principal  Officer. 

In  1847  he  visited  London,  and  the  rest  of  his  life  was  largely 
spent  in  England,  where  he  held  various  government  appointments. 
He  retired  from  the  service  in  1870,  and  became  sub-editor,  under 
Mr.  Froude,  of  Frasei^'s  Magazine^  succeeding  him  in  1874.  Some 
years  before,  he  had  been  granted  a  pension  for  his  literary  services. 
In  the  same  year  (1874)  he  man-ied.     He  died  at  Hampstead  in  1889. 

Allingham  was  a  faii'ly  prolific  writer,  in  both  verse  and  prose  : 
his  first  volume  appeared  in  1850,  and  there  is  a  posthumous  edition 
of  his  works  in  six  volinnes.  No  Life  of  him  has  been  written,  but 
the  '  Letters  of  Dante  GabrielRossettito  William  Allingham,'  edited 
and  annotated  by  Dr.  Birkbeck  Hill,  Avith  a  valuable  introduction, 
record  the  chief  facts  of  his  life  and  literary  friendships. 

Allingham's  principal  volumes  are  :  '  Poems,'  '  Day  and  Night 
Songs,'  'The  Music  Master,  &c.' (containing  Rossetti's  illustration 
of 'The  Maids  of  Elfinmere,' which  moved  Burne- Jones  to  become 
a  painter),  'Fifty  Modern  Poems,'  '  Laurence  Bloomfield  in  Ireland,' 
'  A  Modern  Poem,'  'With  Songs,  Ballads,  and  Stories,*  '  Evil  May- 
Day,'  'Ashby  Manor,'  'A  Play,'  '  Flower  Pieces,' '  Life  and  Phan- 
tasy,' '  Blackberries .' 

Mr.  Lionel  Johnson  in  'A  Treasury  of  Irish  Poetry'  says:  "His 
lyric  voice  of  singular  sweetness,  his  Muse  of  passionate  or  pensive 
meditation,  his  poetic  consecration  of  common  things,  his  mingled 
aloofness  and  homeliness,  assure  him  a  secure  place  among  the  poets 
of  his  land  and  the  Irish  voices  which  never  will  fall  silent.  And 
though  '  the  Irish  cause '  receives  from  him  but  little  direct  en- 
couragement or  help,  let  it  be  remembered  that  Allingham  wrote 
this  great  and  treasurable  truth : 

"  '  We  're  one  at  heart,  if  you  be  Ireland's  friend, 
Tliough  leagues  asunder  our  opinions  tend  : 
There  are  but  two  great  parties  in  the  end.' 

"  We  chiefly  remember  him  as  a  poet  whose  aerial,  ^olian  melo- 
dies steal  into  the  heart — a  poet  of  twilight  and  the  evening  star, 
and  the  sigh  of  the  wind  over  the  hills  and  the  waters  of  an  Ireland 

11 


12  IRISH  LITERATURE. 

that  broods  and  dreams.  His  music  haunts  the  ear  with  its  perfect 
simpht-it y  of  art  and  the  cunning  of  its  quiet  cadences.  Song  upon 
song  makes  no  mention,  direct  or  indirect,  of  Ireland ;  yet  an  Irish 
atmosphere  and  temperament  are  to  be  felt  iu  almost  all." 


LOVELY    MARY    DONNELLY. 

Oh,  lovely  ^lary  Donnelly,  it 's  you  I  love  the  best! 

If  fifty  girls  were  round  you  1  'd  hardly  see  the  rest. 

Be  what  it  nuiy  the  time  of  day,  the  place  be  where  it  will, 

Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  blooiu  before  me  still. 

rier  eyes  like  mountain  water  that's  flowing  on  a  rock, 

IIow  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are!  and  they  give  me  many 

a  shock. 
Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine  and  wetted  with  a  show'r. 
Could  ne'er  express  the  charming  lip  that  has  me  in  its  pow'r. 

Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome,  her  eyebrows  lifted  up. 
Her  chin  is  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth,  just  like  a  china  cup, 
Her  hair  's  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty  and  so  fine; 
It 's  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gathered  in  a  twine. 

The  dance  o'  last  Whit-Monday  night  exceeded  all  before, 
No  pretty  girl  for  miles  about  was  missing  from  the  floor; 
T^>ut  Mary  kei)t  the  belt  of  love,  and  O  but  she  was  gay! 
She  danced  a  jig,  she  sung  a  song,  that  took  my  heart  away. 

When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps  were  so  complete. 
The  music  nearly  killed  itself  to  listen  to  her  feet; 
The  fiddler  moaned  his  blindness,  he  heard  her  so  much  praised. 
But  blessed  his  luck  to  not  be  deaf  when  once  her  voice  she 
raised. 

And  evermore  I  'm  whistling  or  lilting  what  jou  sung. 

Your   smile    is   always    in    my    heart,   your   name   beside   my 

tongue ; 
But  you  've  as  many  sweethearts  as  you  'd  count  on  both  your 

hands, 
And  for  myself  there's  not  a  thumb  or  little  finger  stands. 

Oh,  you  're  the  flower  o'  womankind  in  country  or  in  town; 
The  higher  I  exalt  you,  the  lower  I  'm  cast  down. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM.  13 

If  some  great  lord  should  come  this  way,  and  see  your  beauty 

brij^lit. 
And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I  'd  own  it  was  but  right. 

O  might  we  live  together  in  a  lofty  palace  hall, 
Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scarlet  curtains  fall! 
O  might  we  live  together  in  a  cottage  mean  and  small ; 
With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud  the  only  v\'all ! 

O  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty  's  my  distress. 
It 's  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I  '11  never  wish  it  less. 
The  proudest  i)lace  would  fit  your  face,  and  I  am  poor  and  low ; 
But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever  you  may  go ! 


ABBEY  ASAKOE. 

Gray,  gray  is  Abbey  Asaroe,  by  Ballyshanny  town, 
It  has  neither  door  nor  window,  the  walls  are  broken  down ; 
The  carven  stones  lie  scattered  in  briars  and  nettle-bed; 
The  only  feet  are  those  that  come  at  burial  of  the  dead. 
A  little  rocky  rivulet  runs  murmuring  to  the  tide. 
Singing  a  song  of  ancient  days,  in  sorrow,  not  in  pride; 
The  bore-tree  and  the  lightsome  ash  across  the  portal  grow, 
And  heaven  itself  is  now  the  roof  of  Abbey  Asaroe. 

It  looks  beyond  the  harbor-stream  to  Gulban  mountain  blue; 
It  hears  the  voice  of  Erna's  fall, — Atlantic  breakers  too; 
High  ships  go  sailing  past  it ;  the  sturdy  clank  of  oars 
Brings  in  the  salmon-boat  to  haul  a  net  upon  the  shores; 
And  this  way  to  his  home-creek,  when  the  summer  day  is  done. 
Slow  sculls  the  weary  fisherman  across  the  setting  sun; 
While   green   with  corn   is   Sheegus   Hill,   his   cottage  white 

below ; 
But  gray  at  every  season  is  Abbey  Asaroe. 

There  stood  one  day  a  poor  old  man  above  its  broken  bridge ; 

He  heard  no  running  rivulet,  he  saw  no  mountain  ridge ; 

He  turned  his  back  on  Sheegus  Hill,  and  viewed  with  misty 

sight 
The  abbey  walls,  the  burial-ground  with  crosses  ghostly  white; 
Under  a  weary  weight  of  years  he  bowed  upon  his  staff, 
Perusing  in  the  present  time  the  former's  epitui)h ; 
For,  gray  and  wasted  like  the  walls,  a  figure  full  of  woe, 
This  man  was  of  the  blood  of  them  who  founded  Asaroe. 


14  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

From    DeiTv    to    Bundrowas    Tower,    Tirconnoll    broad    was 

theirs; 
Spearmen   aud    plunder,    bards   and    wine,   and    holy    abbot's 

prayers ; 
^Vith  chanting  always  in  the  house  which  they  had  builded 

high 
To  God  and  to  Saint  Bernard, — whereto  they  came  to  die. 
At  worst,  no  workhouse  grave  for  him  I  the  ruins  of  his  race 
Shall  i-est  among  the  ruined  stones  of  this  their  saintly  place. 
The  fond  old  man  was  weeping;  and  tremulous  and  slow 
Along  the  rough  and  crooked  lane  he  crept  from  Asaroe. 


ACROSS    THE    SEA. 

I  walked  in  the  lonesome  evening, 

And  who  so  sad  as  I, 
When  I  saw  the  young  men  and  maidens 

Merrily  passing  by. 

To  thee,  my  love,  to  thee — 

So  fain  would  I  come  to  thee! 
While  the  rij)i)les  fold  upon  sands  of  gold 

And  I  look  across  the  sea. 

I  stretch  out  my  hands;  who  will  clasp  them? 

I  call, — thou  repliest  no  word: 
O  why  should  heart-longing  be  weaker 

Than  the  waving  wings  of  a  bird! 

To  thee,  my  love,  to  thee — 

So  fain  would  I  come  to  thee! 
For  the  tide's  at  rest  from  east  to  west, 

And  I  look  across  the  sea. 

There 's  joy  in  the  hopeful  morning. 

There  's  peace  in  the  parting  day, 
There  's  sorrow  with  every  lover 

Whose  true-love  is  far  away, 

To  thee,  my  love,  to  thee — 

So  fain  would  I  come  to  thee! 
And  the  water's  so  bright  in  a  still  moonlight, 

As  I  look  across  the  sea. 


WILLIAM    ALLINGHAM.  15 

FOUR    DUCKS    ON    A    POND. 

Four  ducks  on  a  pond, 
A  grass-bank  beyond, 
A  blue  sky  of  ^spring, 
White  clouds  on  the  wing: 
What  a  little  thing 
To  remember  for  years, 
To  remember  with  tears ! 


THE    LOVER    AND    BIRDS. 

Within  a  budding  grove, 
In  April's  ear  sang  every  bird  his  best. 
But  not  a  song  to  pleasure  my  unrest, 

Or  touch  the  tears  unwept  of  bitter  love; 
Some  spake,  methought.  with  pity,  some  as  if  in  jest. 
To  every  word. 
Of  every  bird, 
I  listened  or  replied  as  it  behove. 

Screamed  Chaffinch,  "Sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 
Pretty  lovey,  come  and  meet  me  here !  " 
"'  Chaffinch,"  quoth  I,  "  be  dumb  awhile,  in  fear 

Thy  darling  prove  no  better  than  a  cheat 
And  never  come,  or  fly,  when  wintry  days  appear." 
Yet  from  a  twig. 
With  voice  so  big, 
The  little  fowl  his  utterance  did  repeat. 

Then  I,  "  The  man  forlorn, 
Hears  earth  send  up  a  foolish  noise  aloft," 
"  And  what  '11  he  do?    W^hat  '11  he  do?  "  scoffed 

The  Blackbird,  standing  in  an  ancient  thorn. 
Then  spread  his  sooty  wings  and  flitted  to  the  croft, 
With  cackling  laugh. 
Whom,  I,  being  half 
Enraged,  called  after,  giving  back  his  scorn. 

Worse  mocked  the  Thrush,  "  Die !  die ! 
Oh,  could  he  do  it?     Could  he  do  it?     Nay! 
Be  quick!  be  quick!     Here,  here,  here!"   (went  his  lav) 

"Take  heed!  take  heed!"  then,  "Why?     Why?'  Why? 
Why?     Why? 


16  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

See-See  now !  oo-ee  now  I     (he  drawled)  "  Back !    Back '.    Back ! 
K-r-r  run  away !  " 

Oh,  Thrush,  be  still, 
Or  at  tliy  will 
Seek  some  less  sad  interpreter  than  I ! 

"Air!  air  I  blue  air  and  white  I 
Whither  I  (lee.  whither,  O  whither,  O  whither  T  flee!" 
(Thus  the  Lark  hurried,  mounting  from  the  lea) 

'•  Hills,  countries,  many  waters  glittering  bright 
Whither  I  see,  whither  1  see!     Deeper,  deeper,  deeper,  whither 
1  see,  see,  see !  " 

"  Gay  Lark,"  T  said, 
"  The  song  that 's  bred 
In  happy  nest  may  well  to  heaven  take  flight!" 

"  There  's  something,  something  sad, 
I  half  remember,"  piped  a  broken  strain ; 
Well  sung,  sweet  Robin!  Robin,  sing  again. 

"  Spring 's  opening  cheerily,  cheerily !  be  we  glad !  " 
Which  moved,  I  wist  not  why,  me  melancholy  mad. 
Till  now,  grown  meek, 
With  wetted  cheek. 
Most  comforting  and  gentle  thoughts  I  had. 


AMONG  THE  HEATHER. 

One  morning,  walking  out.  I  o'ertook  a  modest  colleen. 

When  the  wind  was  blowing  cool  and  the  harvest  leaves  were 
falling. 

"  Is  our  road  perchance  the  same?  Might  we  travel  on  to- 
gether?" 

"  Oh,  I  keep  the  mountainside,"  she  replied,  "  among  the 
heather." 

"  Your  mountain  air  is  sweet  when  the  days  are  long  and 

Hunnv, 
When  the  grass  grows  round  the  rocks,  and  the  whin-bloom 

smflls  like  honey; 
But  thf  winter  's  coming  fast  with  its  foggy,  snowy  weather. 
And  you  'II   find   it  bleak  and  chill  on  your  hill  among  the 

heather." 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM.  17 

She  praised  her  mountaiu  home,  and  I  '11  praise  it  too  with 

reason, 
For  where   Molly  is  there 's  sunshine  and  flowers  at  every 

season. 
Be  the  moorland  black  or  white,  does  it  signify  a  feather? 
Now  I  know  the  way  by  heart,  every  part  among  the  heather. 

The  sun  goes  down  in  haste,  and  the  night  falls  thick  and 

stormy. 
Yet  I  'd  travel  twenty  miles  for  the  welcome  that 's  before  me ; 
Singing  "  Hi  for  Eskydun !  "  in  the  teeth  of  wind  and  weather, 
Love  '11  warm  me  as  I  go  through  the  snow  among  the  heather. 


THE    BANSHEE. 

A  BALLAD  OF  ANCIENT  EEIN. 

"  Heard'st  thou  over  the  Fortress  vrild  geese  flying  and  crying? 
Was  it  a  gray  wolf's  howl?  wind  in  the  forest  sighing? 
Wail  from  the  sea  as  of  wreck?     Hast  heard  it.  Comrade?" 

"  Not  so. 
Here,  all 's  still  as  the  grave,  above,  around,  and  below. 

"  The  Warriors  lie  in  battalion,  spear  and  shield  beside  them, 
Tranquil,  whatever  lot  in  the  coming  fray  shall  betide  them. 
See,  where  he  rests,  the  Glory  of  Erin,  our  Kingly  Youth ! 
Closed  his  lion's  eyes,  and  in  sleep  a  smile  on  his  mouth." 

"  The  cry,  the  dreadful  cry !     I  know  it — ^louder  and  nearer, 
Circling  our  Dun — tJw  Banshee! — my  heart  is  frozen  to  hear 

her! 
Saw  you  not  in  the  darkness  a  spectral  glimmer  of  white 
Flitting  away? — I  saw  it! — evil  her  message  to-night. 

"  Constant,  but  never  welcome,  she,  to  the  line  of  our  Chief; 
Bodeful,  baleful,  fateful,  voice  of  terror  and  grief. 
Dimly  burneth  the  lamp — hush!  again  that  horrible  cry! — 
If  a  thousand  lives  could  save  thee,  Tierna,  thou  shouldest  not 
die." 

"  Now!  what  whisper  ye,  Clansmen?     I  wake.     Be  your  words 

of  me? 
Wherefore  gaze  on  each  other?     I  too  have  heard  the  Ban-shee. 


18  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Death  is  her  message:  but  ye,  be  silent.     Death  comes  to  no 

man 
Sweet  as  to  him  who  in  lighting  ciushes  liis  country's  foeman. 

"  Streak  of  dawn  in  the  sky — morning  of  battle.    The  Stranger 
Camps  on  our  salt-sea  strand  below,  and  recks  not  his  danger. 
Victory  I — that  was  my  dream :  one  that  shall  fill  men's  ears 
In  story  and  song  of  harp  after  a  thousand  years. 

*'  Give  me  my  helmet  and  sword.     Whale-tusk,  gold-wrought,  I 

clutch  thee ! 
Blade,  Flesh-Biter,  fail  me  not  this  time!     Yea,  when  I  touch 

thee. 
Shivers  of  joy  run  through  me.     Sing  aloud  as  I  swing  thee! 
(Hut  of  enemies'  blood,  meseemeth,  to-day  shall  bring  thee. 

''  Sound  the  horn  I     Behold,  the  Sun  is  beginning  to  rise. 

^^'hoso  seeth  him  set,  ours  is  the  victor's  prize, 

^Vhen  the  foam  along  the  sand  shall  no  longer  be  white  but 

red — 
Spoils  and  a  mighty  feast  for  the  Living,  a  earn  for  the  Dead." 


THE    FAIRIES. 
A  child's  song. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 

We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap. 

And  white  owl's  feather! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home — 
They  live  on  crispy  j)ancake8 

Of  yellow  tide-foam; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  th(^  black  mountain-lake. 
With   frogs  for  their  watchdogs, 

All  night  awake. 


WILLfA.]J    ALLINGHAM.  19 

Higli  oil  the  liill-lop 

The  old  Kiiifi;  sits; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray, 

He  's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Cohiiubkill  he  ci-osses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long; 
When  she  came  down  again. 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back. 

Between  the  night  and  morrow; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep. 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  tlag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare. 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees. 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  them  up  in  spite. 
He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorns 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather! 


20  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

THE    LEPRECAUN,    OR    FAIRY    SHOEMAKER. 

A     RHYME     FOR     CHILDREN. 

Little  cowboy,  what  liave  you  heard. 

Up  on  the  lonely  rath's  green  mound? 
Only  the  idaintive  vel  low -bird 

Singing  in  sultry  fields  around? 
Chary,  chary,  chary,  chee-e! 
Only  the  grasshopper  and  the  bee? 

"  Tip-taj),  ri})-rap, 

Tick-a-tack-too ! 
Scarlet  leather  sewn  together, 

This  will  make  a  shoe. 
Left,  right,  pull  it  tight, 

Summer  days  are  warm; 
Underground  in  winter, 

Laughing  at  the  storm  I" 
Lay  your  ear  close  to  the  hill : 

Do  you  not  catch  the  tiny  clamor, 

Busy  click  of  an  elfin  hammer, 
Voice  of  the  I^X)recaun  singing  shrill 

As  he  merrily  plies  his  trade? 
He 's  a  sjian 

And  a  quarter  in  height: 
Get  him  in  sight,  hold  liim  fast, 

And  you're  a  made 
Man ! 

You  watch  your  cattle  the  summer  day, 
Suj)  on  jtotatoes,  sleej)  in  the  hay; 
How  should  you  like  to  roll  in  your  carriage 
And  look  for  a  duchess's  daughter  in  marriage? 
Seize  the  shoemaker,  so  you  may! 
"  Big  boots  a-hunting, 
Sandals  in  the  hall, 
"White  for  a  \vedding-feast, 

And  pink  for  a  ball : 
This  way,  that  ^yay, 

So  we  make  a  shoe. 
Getting  rich  every  stitch, 
Tick-tack-too!"'' 
Nine-and-niuety  treasure  crocks, 

This  keen  miser-fairy  hath, 
Hid  in  mountain,  wood,  and  rocks, 


WILLIAM    ALLTNGHAM.  21 

Ruin  -And  ronnd-tower,  cave  and  rath, 
And  where  the  cormorants  build; 
From  timeH  of  old 

Guarded  by  him; 
Each  of  them  filled 
Full  to  the  brim 
With  gold ! 

I  cauf^ht  him  at  work  one  day  myself, 

In  the  castle-ditch  where  the  foxglove  grows; 
A  wrinkled,  wizened,  and  bearded  elf, 
Spectacles  stuck  on  the  top  of  his  nose, 
Silver  buckles  to  his  hose, 
Leather  apron,  shoe  in  his  lap; 
"  Rip-rap,  tip-tap, 
Tick-tack-too ! 
A  grig  stepped  upon  my  cap, 

Away  the  moth  tiew. 
Buskins  for  a  fairy  prince. 

Brogues  for  his  son, 
Pay  me  well,  pay  me  well. 
When  the  job's  done." 
The  rogue  was  mine  beyond  a  doubt, 
I  stared  at  him;  he  stared  at  me! 
"■  Servant,  sir !  "     "  Humph  !  "  said  he. 
And  pulled  a  snufp-box  out. 

He  took  a  long  pinch,  looked  better  pleased. 

The  queer  little  Leprecaun; 
Ofifered  the  box  with  a  whimsical  grace, — 
Pouf !  he  flung  the  dust  in  my  face, — 
And,  while  I  sneezed. 
Was  gone! 


A  DREAM. 

I  heard  the  dogs  howl  in  the  moonlight  night; 
I  went  to  the  window  to  see  the  sight; 
All  the  Dead  that  ever  I  knew 
Going  one  by  one  and  two  by  two. 

On  t"hey  passed,  and  on  they  passed ; 
Townsfellows  all,  from  first  to  last; 
Born  in  the  moonlight  of  the  lane. 
Quenched  in  the  heavy  shadow  again. 


IHLSH    LITERATURE. 

Schoolmates,  marching  as  when  we  phiyed 
At  sohlioi-is  once— but  now  more  staid; 
Those  were  the  strangest  sight  to  me 
^^'ho  were  drowned,  I  knew,  in  the  awful  sea. 

Straight  and  handsome  folk;  bent  and  weak,  too; 
Some  that  I  loved,  and  gasj)ed  to  speak  to; 
Some  but  a  day  in  their  churchyard  bed; 
Some  that  I  had  not  known  were  dead. 

A  long,  long  crowd — where  each  seemed  lonely, 
Yet  of  them  all  there  was  one,  one  only, 
Raised  a  head  or  looked  my  way. 
She  lingered  a  moment, — she  might  not  stay. 

How  long  since  I  saw  that  fair  pale  face! 
Ah:  Mother  dear!  might  I  only  place 
My  head  on  thy  breast,  a  moment  to  rest, 
While  thy  hand  on  my  tearful  cheek  were  jirest! 

On,  on,  a  moving  bridge  they  made 
Across  the  moon-stream,  from  shade  to  shade, 
Young  and  old,  women  and  men ; 
Many  long-forgot,  but  remembered  then. 

And  first  there  came  a  bitter  laughter; 
A  sound  of  tears  the  moment  after; 
And  then  a  music  so  lofty  and  gay, 
That  every  morning,  day  by  day, 
I  strive  to  recall  it  if  1  mav. 


THE    RUINED    CHAPEL. 

By  the  shore,  a  plot  of  ground 
CIij)S  a  ruined  chapel  round, 
Buttressed  with  a  grassy  mound, 

^^'here  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by, 
And  bring  no  touch  of  human  sound. 

Washing  of  the  lonely  seas. 
Shaking  of  the  guardian  trees, 
Piping  of  the  salted  brooze; 

J>ay  and  Night  and   Day  go  by. 
To  the  endless  tune  of  these. 


WILLIAM    ALLING1IA.U.  23 

Or  when,  as  winds  and  waters  keep 
A  luisli  more  dead  tlian  any  sleep, 
Still  morns  to  stiller  evenings  creep. 

And  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by; 
Here  the  silence  is  most  deep. 

The  empty  rnins,  lapsed  again 

Into  Nature's  wide  domain. 

Sow  themselves  with  seed  and  grain 

As  Da^-  and  Night  and  Day  go  by; 
And  hoard  June's  sun  and  April's  rain. 

Here  fresh  funeral  tears  were  shed; 

Now  the  graves  are  also  dead ; 

And  suckers  from  the  ash-tree  spread, 

While  Day  and  Night  and  Day  go  by 
And  stars  move  calml.y  overhead. 


EDMUND  JOHN  ARMSTRONG. 
(1841—1865.) 

Edmunt)  John  Arjistrong  was  the  elder  brother  of  G.  F.  Savage- 
Armstrong  (g.r.).  He  Avas  born  in  Dubhn,  July  23,  1841.  Asa 
child  he  showed  great  intellectual  power,  and  he  began  to  write 
poetry  while  still  a  boy.  He  conimcnccd  his  career  at  Trinity  College 
in  ISnO  with  a  series  of  brilliant  successes;  but  in  the  spring  of  1860 
he  ruptured  a  blood-vessel  and  was  obliged  to  go  to  the  Channel 
Islands.  His  health  being  restored,  ho  made  a  long  tour  in  France 
with  his  brother  in  18G2,  during  which  he  collected  the  material  for 
'  The  Prisoner  of  ^Mount  Saint  Michael,'  a  poem  which  was  highly 
praised,  both  for  the  treatment  of  the  story  and  for  the  remarkable 
ease  and  power  of  the  blank  verse.  In  the  same  year  he  returned  to 
Dublin  and  recommenced  his  university  studies.  In  1864  he  was 
awarded  the  gold  medal  for  composition  by  the  Historical  Society, 
and  elected  President  of  the  Philosophical  Society.  In  the  winter  of 
1864,  though  apparently  of  strong  ]ihysique  and  a  great  lover  of  out- 
door life,  he  was  attacked  bj'-  consumption,  and  died  Feb.  24,  1865. 

A  selection  from  his  poems  was  published  in  the  autimm  of  1865, 
as  a  memorial,  by  the  Historical  and  Philosophical  Societies  and 
several  eminent  friends;  it  was  well  received  by  the  press  and 
warmly  praised  by  distinguished  writers  of  the  day.  He  Avas  also 
the  author  of  '  Ovoca,  an  Idyllic  Poem,'  and  other  poetical  works,  a 
second  edition  of  which,  with  his  '  Life  and  Letters  '  and  '  Essays 
and  Sketches,'  was  published  in  London  in  1877.  There  can  be 
little  doubt  that  Armstrong  might  have  attained  to  high  poetic  ex- 
cellence. He  had  a  briglit  fancy,  a  keen  sensibility,  and  a  fine 
character  which  endeared  him  to  many. 

THE  BLIND  STUDENT. 

On  Euripides'  plays  we  debated, 

In  College,  one  chill  winter  night; 
A  student  rose  uj),  while  we  Avaited 

For  more  intellectual  light. 
As  he  stood,  j)ale  and  anxious,  before  us, 

Three  Avords,  like  a  soft  summer  Avind, 
Went  past  us  and  through  us  and  o'er  us — 

A  whisper  1oa\ -breathed :  "He  is  blind!" 

And  ill  many  a  face  there  Avas  i»ity, 

In  many  an  ey(*  there  A\'e]e  tears; 
For  his  woi-ds  Avere  not  buoyant  or  Avitty, 

As  fitted  his  fresh  summer  years. 
24 


EDMUND    JOHN   ARMSTRONG.  25 

And  lie  spoke  once  or  twice,  as  none  other 
Could  speak,  of  a  woman's  pure  ways — 

He  remembered  the  face  of  his  mother 
Ere  darkness  had  blighted  his  days. 


ADIEU. 


I  hear  a  distant  clarion  blare, 

The  smoldering  battle  flames  anew; 

A  noise  of  onset  shakes  the  air — 
Dear  woods  and  quiet  vales,  adieu ! 

Weird  crag,  where  I  was  wont  to  gaze 

On  the  far  sea's  aerial  hue, 
Below  a  veil  of  glimmering  haze 

At  morning's  breezy  prime — adieu! 

Clear  runnel,  bubbling  under  boughs 
Of  odorous  lime  and  darkling  yew, 

Where  I  have  lain  on  banks  of  flowers 
And  dreamed  the  livelong  noon — adieu! 

And,  ah !  ye  lights  and  shades  that  ray 
Those  orbs  of  brightest  summer  blue, 

That  haunted  me  by  night  and  day 
For  happy  moons — adieu!  adieu! 


FROM  FIONNUALA. 

With  heaving  breast  the  fair-haired  Eileen  sang 
The  mystic,  sweet,  low-voweled  Celtic  rhyme 
Of  Fionnuala  and  her  phantom  lover, 
Who  wooed  her  in  the  fairy  days  of  yore 
Beneath  the  sighing  pines  that  gloom  the  waves 
Of  Luggala  and  warbling  Anamoe — 
And  how  he  whispered  softly  vows  of  love. 
While  the  pale  moonbeam  glimmered  down  and  lit 
The  cataract's  flashing  foam,  and  elves  and  fays 
Played  o'er  the  dewy  harebells,  wheeling  round 
The  dappled  foxglove  in  a  flickering  maze 
Of  faint  aerial  flame;  and  the  wild  si)rites 


20  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Of  tlio  roujj:h  storm  wore  bound  in  charmdd  sleep — 

And  how  the  lovely  i)liantom  lowl.v  knelt, 

And  i)leaded  with  such  sweet-tongued  eloquence, 

Such  heavenly  radiance  on  his  lips  and  eyes, 

That  Fionnuala,  blushing,  all  in  tears. 

Breaking  the  sacred  spell  that  held  her  soul, 

Fell  on  his  bosom  and  confessed  her  love — 

And  how  the  demon  changed,  and  flashed  upon  her 

In  all  his  hideous  beauty,  and  she  sank 

In  fearful  slumbers,  and,  awaking,  found 

Her  form  borne  upward  in  the  yielding  air; 

And,  floating  o'er  a  dark  blue  lake,  beheld 

The  reflex  of  a  swan,  Mhite  as  the  clouds 

That  fringe  the  noonday  sun,  and  heard  a  voice, 

As  from  a  far  world,  shivering  through  the  air : 

"  Thou  shalt  resume  thy  maiden  form  once  more 

When  yon  great  Temples,  piled  upon  the  hills 

With  rugged  slabs  and  pillars,  shall  be  whelmed 

In  ruin,  and  their  builders'  names  forgot!" — 

And  how  she  knew  her  })hantom  lover  spoke, 

And  how  she  floated  over  lake  and  fell 

A  hundred  years,  and  sighed  her  mournful  plaint 

Day  after  day,  till  the  first  mass-bell  pealed 

Its  silvery  laughter  amid  Erin's  hills. 

And  a  young  vvarrior  found  her,  with  the  dew 

Of  morning  on  her  maiden  lips,  asleep 

In  the  green  woods  of  warbling  Anamoe, 

And  wooed  and  won  her  for  his  blushing  bride. 


I'lLGRIMS. 

Wild  blows  the  tempest  on  their  brows 

.    .    .     Lit  by  the  dying  sunset's  fire; 

While  round  the  biave  ship's  keel  and  o'er  the  bows 

The  thundering  billows  break.     And,  as  a  lyre 

Struck  by  a  maniac  writhes  with  storms  of  sound, 

Wherein  the  moan  of  some  low  melody 

Is  crushed  in  that  tumultuous  ,'igonv 

That  swee]»s  and  whirls  ai-ound; 

So,  in  the  roar  and  hiss  of  the  vexed  sea. 

And  'mid  thf  tinfiping  of  the  tiittered  sails, 

The  thousand  voices  of  the  ruthless  gales 

Arc  blended  with  the  sigh  of  murmured  prayer, 

The  long  low  jihiint  of  sorrow  and  of  care — 


EDMUND    JOHX    ARMSTRONG.  27 

The  sound  of  prayer  upon  the  storm-blown  sea, 

The  sound  of  prayer  amid  the  thunder's  roll, 

'Mid  the  howl  of  the  tempest,  the  j)ale-flashing  gleam 

Of  the  waters  that  coil  o'er  the  decks  black  and  riven, 

While  hither  and  thither  through  chink  and  through  seam 

The  foam  of  the  green  leaping  billows  is  driven. 

A  moment  their  forms  are  aglow  in  the  flash 

Of  the  red,  lurid  bolt;  then  the  vibrating  crash 

Of  the  echoing  thunder  above  and  below 

Shakes  the  folds  of  the  darkness;  they  reel  to  and  fro 

From  the  crest  to  the  trough  of  the  flickering  wave, 

Where  the  waters  are  curved  like  the  crags  of  a  cave 

That  drip  with  red  brine  in  the  vapors  of  gold 

From  the  doors  of  the  sunrise  in  hurricane  rolled. 

The  sea-birds  are  screaming, 

The  lightning  is  gleaming. 
The  billows  are  whirling  voluminously; 

Like  snakes  in  fierce  battle 
They  twist  and  they  fold, 

Amid  the  loud  rattle 
Of  ocean  and  sky. 

While  the  terrible  bell  of  the  thunder  is  tolled 
And  the  fiends  of  the  storm  ride  by; 
Till  the  buffeting  blast 
Is  hushed  to  a  whisper  at  hast ; 
And  the  sun  in  his  splendor  and  majesty 
Looks  down  on  the  deep's  aerial  blue ; 
And  the  soft  low  cry  of  the  white  seamew, 
And  the  plash  of  the  ripple  around  the  keel, 
Like  a  girl's  rich  laughter,  lightly  steal 
O'er  those  true  hearts  by  troubles  riven ; 
And  a  song  of  praise  goes  ujj  to  Heaven. 


SARAH    ATKINSON. 

(1823—1893.) 

Mrs.  Atkinson,  a  most  prolific  contributor  to  periodical  literature 
and  the  author  of  at  least  one  book  which  has  made  a  distinctive 
mark,  was  born  Oct.  13,  182.3.  in  the  town  of  Athlone,  where  she  re- 
ceived her  early  education.  From  the  age  of  fifteen  it  was  continued 
at  Dublin.  At  school  she  began  that  system  of  diligent  note-taking 
which  remained  with  her  through  life,  and  which  helped  her  to  the 
extraordinary  accuracy  and  completeness  of  detail  which  marked 
her  later  work.  She  married  Dr.  George  Atkinson  in  her  twenty- 
fifth  year  ;  and  in  a  life  devoted  to  good  Avorksshe  found  time  for  a 
good  deal  of  writing.  With  perfect  womanly  sweetness,  she  had  a 
masculine  force  and  clearness  of  intellect.  She  would  have  made 
an  ideal  historian,  for  she  had  the  broadest  and  most  impartial  of 
minds,  a  keen  vision,  a  strong,  clear,  noble  style,  and  an  infinite 
capacity  for  taking  pains. 

The  preface  to  her  '  Life  of  Mary  Aikenhead,'  dealing  with  the 
penal  days  in  Ireland,  packed  full  as  it  is  with  out-of-the-way  infor- 
mation most  lucidly  stated,  excited  the  warm  admiration  of  the  late 
Mr.  Lecky.  Indeed,  her  mind  was  in  many  respects  of  the  same 
encyclopaedic  character  as  that  of  this  great  historian. 


WOMEN  IN  IRELAND  IN  PENAL  DAYS. 

From  '  Mary  Aikenhead,  Her  Life,  Her  Work,  and  Her  Friends.' 

Hardly  necessary  is  it  to  remark  tliat  the  liome  life  of 
the  people  was  their  dearest  refuge — their  impregnable 
stronghold.  Not  that  iniquitous  legislation  had  over- 
looked this  sanctuary  of  divine  faith  and  domestic  virtue. 
The  penal  laws,  as  A\e  have  seen,  sought  to  make  the  fourth 
commandment  a  dead  letter  by  encouraging  disobedience 
to  parental  authority,  and  rewarding  rebellion  with  priv- 
ilege and  wealth.  The  Code  supplemented  this  attempt  to 
set  childien  against  their  parents,  by  endeavoring  to  dis- 
turb the  relations  between  lnisl)and  and  wife;  for,  if  the 
wife  of  a  Catholic  declared  herself  a  Protestant,  the  law 
enabled  her  to  compel  her  husband  to  give  her  a  separate 
maiiitf'iKinr-e,  and  to  transfer  to  her  the  custody  and  guar- 
diansliip  of  all  their  children;  and,  as  if  to  bring  injury 
and  insult  to  a  climax,  every  Catholic  was  by  act  of  Par- 

28 


SARAH  ATKINSON.  29 

liament  deprived  of  the  power  of  settling  a  jointure  on  his 
Catholic  wife  or  charging  his  lands  with  any  provision 
for  his  daughters.  Disruption  of  the  strong  and  tender 
bond  that  held  the  Irish  household  as  a  Christian  family 
was  not  to  be  effected  by  royal  proclamation  or  Parlia- 
mentary decree:  nevertheless,  the  legislation  that  aimed 
at  depriving  the  naturally  dependent  members  of  the  fam- 
ily of  manly  protection  and  necessary  provision  was  felt 
as  a  biting  insult  and  an  inhuman  tyranny. 

In  Irish  households,  high  and  low,  the  women  through- 
out those  troubled  times  kept  well  up  to  the  Christian 
standard,  cherishing  the  domestic  virtues,  accepting  with 
patience  their  own  share  of  suffering,  defying  the  tempta- 
tions held  out  by  the  enemies  of  the  faith,  refusing  to 
barter  the  souls  of  the  young,  in  the  midst  of  calamity 
keeping  the  eternal  reward  in  view,  and  daily  exercising 
works  of  charity  and  zeal.  As  far  as  circumstances  would 
allow,  the  people  in  their  domestic  life  followed  the  tradi- 
tional standard  of  their  ancestors  and  preserved  the  cus- 
toms of  immemorial  days. 

Women,  from  the  earliest  times,  have  ever  been  held  in 
great  respect  in  Ireland.  The  Brehon  law,  by  which  the 
inhabitants  of  the  territories  outside  the  Pale  were  gov- 
erned from  long  before  St.  Patrick's  time,  to  the  reign  of 
James  I.,  and  according  to  whose  provisions  the  people  in 
manj'  parts  of  the  country  continued,  up  to  a  compara- 
tively recent  period,  to  arrange  their  affairs  and  settle 
their  disputes,  secured  to  women  the  rights  of  property, 
and  provided  for  their  rational  independence  in  a  far  more 
effectual  way  than  was  contemplated  by  other  codes.  In 
social  life  the  spirit  of  the  Brehon  law  was  embodied,  and 
transmitted  to  succeeding  generations,  in  the  customs  and 
manners  of  the  people.  One  cannot  read  the  annals  of 
Ireland  without  observing  how  important  was  the  position 
occupied  by  women  in  Erin.  All,  according  to  their  de- 
gree, were  expected  to  fill  a  part,  both  influential  and  hon- 
orable, in  the  constitution  of  the  clan.  A  considerable 
share  of  the  internal  administration  of  the  principality 
was  intrusted  to  the  wife  of  the  chieftain  or  provincial 
king.  The  duties  of  hospitality — onerous  and  constant, 
and  precis(;ly  defined  by  the  Brehon  law — were  exercised 
by  her.     To  her  was  intrusted  the  care  of  the  poor  and 


30  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

suffering.  She  was  expected  to  be  an  encourager  of  learn- 
ing, ami  a  friend  to  the  ollamhs  or  professors,  a  benefactor 
to  the  chnrches,  and  a  generous  helper  of  the  religious 
orders. 

While  the  chieftain  was  out  fighting  or  taking  preys 
from  his  enemies,  the  chieftain's  wife  kept  everything  in 
order  in  the  little  kingdom,  and  held  herself  ready,  at  a 
moment's  notice,  to  protect  her  people  from  robbers  or  de- 
fend her  castle  from  invaders.  The  mother  of  Hugh 
()'X(m'11  is  described  by  the  annalists  as  "  a  woman  who  was 
tlie  pillar  of  support  and  maintenance  of  the  indigent  and 
the  mighty,  of  tlie  \n)vts  and  exiled,  of  widows  and  or- 
phans, of  the  clergy  and  men  of  science,  of  the  poor  and 
the  needy;  a  woman  who  was  the  head  of  council  and  ad- 
vice to  the  gentlemen  and  chiefs  of  the  province  of  Conor 
^lacNessa;  a  demure,  wonmnly,  devout,  charitable,  meek, 
benignant  woman,  with  pure  piety  and  the  love  of  God 
and  her  neighbors."  In  the  obituary  notice  of  a  certain 
great  lady,  the  annalist  tells  us  how  she  was  "  a  nurse  of 
all  guests  and  strangers,  and  of  all  the  learned  men  in 
Ireland";  of  another  we  read  that  she  was  "the  most 
distinguished  woman  in  Munster  in  her  time,  in  fame, 
hospitality,  good  sense,  and  piety."  The  old  writers,  in 
summing  up  the  noble  qualities  of  an  Irish  chieftain's  wife, 
do  not  omit  to  mention  that  she  was  distinguished  by  her 
checking  of  plunder,  her  hatred  of  injustice,  by  her  tran- 
quil mind  and  her  serene  countenance. 

We  get  the  portrait  of  a  woman  of  this  stamp,  and  a  pic- 
ture of  the  manners  of  the  fifteenth  century  in  Ireland,  in 
the  account  of  Margaret,  the  daughter  of  the  king  of  Ely, 
and  wife  of  Calvagh  O'Carroll.  Tliis  lady  was  accustomed 
to  give  a  great  feast  twice  in  the  year,  bestowing  "  meate 
and  moneyes,  with  all  other  manner  of  gifts,"  on  all  who 
assembh'd  on  tliese  occasions.  The  guests  took  their 
])laces  according  as  tlieir  names  were  entered  in  a  roll  kept 
for  that  purpose,  while  the  chieftain  and  his  wife  devoted 
themselves  entirely  to  their  guests.  Margaret  "  clad  in 
(loath  of  gold,  her  deerest  friends  about  her,  her  clergy 
and  judges  too;  Talvagli  liinisclf  being  on  horseback,  by 
the  church's  outward  si(h*,  to  the  end  that  all  things  might 
b(^  done  orderly,  and  each  one  served  successively."  On 
one  of  those  days  of  festivity  Margaret  gave  two  chalices 


SARAH    ATKINSON.  31 

of  gold  as  offerinj^s  on  the  jiltar  to  God  Almighty,  and 
"  she  also  caused  to  nurse  or  foster  two  young  orphans." 
She  was  distinguished  among  the  women  of  her  time  for 
preparing  highways  and  erecting  bridges  and  churches, 
and  doing  "  all  manner  of  things  protitable  to  serve  God 
and  her  soule."  Her  days  were  shortened  by  a  fatal  can- 
cer; and  the  annalist  concludes  his  notice  with  a  beautiful 
prayer  and  a  pathetic  malediction.  "  God's  blessing,"  he 
exclaims,  ''  the  blessing  of  all  saints,  and  every  other  bless- 
ing from  Jerusalem  to  Inis  Gluair,  be  on  her  going  to 
heaven,  and  blessed  be  he  that  will  reade  and  heare  this, 
for  blessing  her  soule.  Cursed  be  that  sore  in  her  breast 
that  killed  Margrett." 

And  should  one  of  these  fair  women,  who  acted  well  her 
part  in  the  chieftain's  household,  renounce  "  all  worldly 
vanityes  and  terrestrial  glorious  pomps  "  and  betake  her- 
self to  "  an  austere,  devoute  life  "  in  a  monastery,  the 
chronicler  fails  not  to  speed  thither  the  blessings  of  guests 
and  strangers,  poor  and  rich,  and  poet-philosophers  of  Ire- 
land, which  he  prays  "  may  be  on  her  in  that  life."  In 
recording  the  erection  of  churches  and  the  foundation  of 
monasteries,  the  old  historians  constantlv  note  that  it  is 
a  joint  work  of  the  chief  and  his  wife.  Sometimes,  indeed, 
the  wife  seems  to  have  been  sole  founder;  and  we  are  led 
to  infer  that  she  had  at  her  disposal  certain  revenues, 
whether  the  property  of  the  head  of  the  clan  or  the  pro- 
ceeds of  her  own  dowry. 

We  read  that  the  wife  of  Stephen  Lynch  Fitz-Dominick, 
while  her  husband  was  beyond  the  seas  in  Spain,  began,  in 
the  year  1500,  to  build  a  convent  on  an  eminence  over  the 
sea  at  Galway.  Church  and  steeple  were  finished  be- 
fore his  return,  and  on  entering  the  bay  he  was  much  sur- 
prised to  behold  so  stately  a  building  on  the  heights. 
Having  learned  on  his  landing  that  the  edifice  had  been 
erected  by  his  own  wife  in  honor  of  St.  Augustine,  he  knelt 
down  on  the  seashore  and  returned  thanks  to  Heaven  for 
inspiring  her  with  that  pious  resolution.  Subsequently 
he  took  part  in  the  good  work,  finislied  the  monastery,  and 
endowed  it  with  rents  and  several  lands.  Another  case 
in  point  may  be  noted  in  the  story  of  the  building  of  the 
famous  Franciscan  monastery  of  Donegal. 

If  the  women  of  Erin  took  their  full  share  of  the  bur- 


32  IRISn    LITERATURE. 

dens  and  responsibilities  of  life  in  those  by£2;one  stirring 
times,  they  were  not  for  that  excluded  from  participation 
in  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  in  the  advantages  of  whatever 
culture  was  then  attainable.  Uke  their  husbands,  they 
were  fond  of  traveling  abroad,  and  made  pilgrimages  to 
St.  James  of  Compostella;  to  Rome,  "the  capital  of  the 
Christians";  and  even  to  more  distant  shrines.  But  it 
does  not  appear  to  have  been  customary  for  the  chief  and 
the  chief tainess  to  leave  home  together:  the  one  or  the 
other  should  stay  to  receive  strangers,  entertain  guests, 
and  carry  on  the  government  of  the  principality.  In  days 
when  certain  important  professions,  such  as  those  of  Bre- 
hon,  poet,  and  historian,  were  hereditary  in  certain  fam- 
ilies, the  women  of  those  families  received  an  education 
fitting  them  to  take  a  part  in  the  avocations  of  their  male 
relatives.  Thus,  among  the  Brehons,  who  were  the  law- 
yers of  the  clans,  there  were  women  eminent  as  judges  or 
expounders  of  the  laws;  and  in  the  learned  families  there 
were  women  historians  and  i^oets.  The  learned  men  of 
Erin,  it  is  evident,  enjoyed  the  sympathy  and  appreciation 
of  the  daughters  of  the  land,  and  were  not  ungrateful  for 
the  encouragement  and  hospitality  they  received.  They 
inscribed  the  names  of  their  lady  friends  on  the  tracts  com- 
piled for  their  use  or  at  their  desire.  One  of  the  very 
ancient  Gaelic  manuscripts  still  in  existence  is  a  tract 
entitled  ^History  of  the  Illustrious  Women  of  Erin'; 
another  valuable  relic  of  the  olden  times  is  inscribed. 
*  Lives  of  the  Mothers  of  the  Irish  Saints.' 

It  is  interesting  to  learn  what  impression  the  women  of 
Ireland  at  a  later  period — the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century* — made  on  strangers  from  the  classic  land  of  Italy. 
The  Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan  has  enriched  the  fifth  edition  of 
his  *  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Irish  Franciscan  Monasteries, 
and  Memoirs  of  the  Hierarchy,'  with  the  original  account 
of  the  journey  from  Kennmre  to  Kilkenny  of  Rinucini, 
Archbishop  of  Fermo,  who  was  sent  to  this  country  as 
Papal  nuncio  in  1045.  ^lassari,  Dean  of  Fermo,  accom- 
I)anied  the  nuncio  as  secretary,  and  wrote  the  narrative 
which  is  given  in  the  appendix  to  the  work  just  cited.  The 
dean  speaks  more  than  once  with  genuine  delight  of  the 
e]ej;ant  hospitality  with  which  the  distinguished  visitors 
were  entertained  by  the  lords  and  ladies  of  Munster,  and 


SARAH   ATKINSON.  33 

specially  dwells  on  the  reception  they  received  from  Lady 
Muskerry,  whose  husband  was  then  from  liome,  either  with 
the  army  of  the  Confederates,  or  in  Dublin  discussing  Lord 
Ormonde's  peace.  "  The  women,"  he  says,  "  are  exceed- 
ingly beautiful,  and  heighten  tlieir  attractions  by  their 
matchless  modesty  and  piety.  Tliey  converse  freely  with 
every  one,  and  are  devoid  of  suspicion  and  jealousy.  Their 
style  of  dress  differs  from  ours,  and  rather  resembles  the 
French;  all  wear  cloaks  with  long  fringes;  they  have  also 
a  hood  sewn  to  the  cloak,  and  they  go  abroad  without  any 
covering  for  the  head;  some  wearing-  a  kerchief,  as  the 
Greek  women  do,  which,  being  gracefully  arranged,  adds, 
if  possible,  to  their  native  comeliness."  ^ 

There  may  seem  to  have  been  but  little  relation  between 
the  position  of  a  chieftainess  in  ancient  times  and  that  of 
the  mistress  of  an  Irish  Catholic  household  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century;  and  yet,  even  during  the  penal  days,  the 
spirit  of  the  earlier  time  survived,  the  old  ideal  was  not 
supplanted  by  anything  less  worthy.  The  houses  of  the  re- 
duced gentry  were  still  the  center  of  a  generous  hospitality, 
and  charity  was  dispensed  from  the  gentleman's  door  with 
a  liberality  wholly  incommensurate  with  the  revenues  of 
a  fallen  estate.  The  careful  mother,  who  could  not  grace 
her  home  with  the  presence  of  the  learned,  sent  forth  her 
sons  to  encounter  the  risks  of  a  perilous  voyage  and  the 
dangers  of  foreign  travel,  that  so  they  might  escape  the 
dreaded  doom  of  ignorance;  she  lent  her  best  efforts  to 
the  fostering  of  that  magnanimous  loyalty  so  requisite  for 
the  preservation  of  the  ancient  faith.  The  mother's  lessons 
proved  a  stay  and  conscience  to  her  sons  when,  in  after-life, 
temptations  rudely  pressed  uj^on  them.     The  mother's  ex- 

1  Tlie  Dean  of  Fermo  does  equal  justice  to  the  men  of  Ireland,  who  are, 
he  says,  "good-looking,  incredibly  strong,  fleet  runners,  equal  to  any 
hardsliip,  and  indescribably  patient.  They  are  given  to  arms  ;  and  tliose 
who  apply  themselves  to  learning  become  liighly  distinguished  in  every 
domain  of  science."  Of  the  people  in  general  he  speaks  in  high  terms. 
"  I  have  not  words,"  he  continues,  "to  describe  to  you  the  kindness  and 
politeness  which  we  experienced  at  the  liands  of  this  Irish  people,  whose 
devotion  to  the  Holy  See  is  beyond  all  praise,  and  I  assure  you  that  I  was 
often  moved  to  tears  when  I  saw  them,  wholly  forgetful  of  self,  kneeling 
in  the  very  mire  in  order  to  kiss  tlie  nuncio's  robe  and  hands  as  if  they 
were  holy  relics.  At  almost  every  stage  of  our  journey,  the  nuncio  was 
escorted  by  strong  squadrons  of  horse  to  protect  him  from  the  enemy. 
We  are  in  Ireland  !  we  are  in  Ireland  !  praise  to  God." 


34  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

ample  taught  hor  daughters  how  to  uuite  a  virile  courage 
with  womanly  modesty  ami  grace. 

Nor  was  it  among  the  higher  classes  alone  that  these 
charaeteristics  remained  distinctly  marked  during:  the 
days  of  the  nation's  trial;  they  were  noticeable  in  the 
farmer's  cottage  and  the  peasant's  hut.  The  poor  man's 
wife  did  not  turn  the  weary  and  the  hungry  from  her  door; 
she  received  the  poor  scholar  with  a  motherly  welcome;  ^ 
she  accustomed  her  children  to  think  nothing  of  a  run  of 
two  or  three  miles  to  the  hedge-school.  I>y  precept  and 
by  example  she  taught  them  fidelity  to  the  faith,  love  for 
the  old  land,  reverence  for  God's  ministers,  and  respect  for 
learning.  The  high  moral  tone  pervading  the  social  life 
of  the  humbler  classes  in  Ireland  was  at  once  the  cause  and 
consequence  of  the  important  position  which  the  women 
maintained  at  the  domestic  hearth,  and  of  the  beneficial 
sway  which  they  exercised  among  their  neighbors  of  the 
same  degree. 

The  circumstances  of  the  time  were  favorable  to  the 
growth  of  this  intiuence.  As  a  rule  the  women  did  not 
work  in  the  fields:  their  occupations  were  of  an  indoor 
character ;  and  the  habits  of  the  people,  both  men  and  wo- 
men, were  domestic.  The  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury being  happily  free  from  such  famines  which  had  laid 
waste  the  country  during  the  previous  two  hundred  years, 
and  were  fated  to  reappear  at  a  later  period,  there  was 
plenty  of  food  for  the  people.  The  statf  of  life — the  potato 
— was  then  in  its  prime,  as  to  quality  and  quantity.  Each 
little  holding  produced  a  crop  sufiticient  for  the  support  of 
a  numerous  family,  with  a  large  surplus  for  the  poultry 
that  crowded  round  tlu^  door,  and  the  pigs,  which  even  the 
l)Oorest  cotter  reared;  while  a  paddock  was  reserved  from 
tillage  as  pasture  for  the  high-boned  native  cow,  which 
formed  an   important  item  of  the    live    stock.      In    the 


1  In  Ireland  it  is  a  custom,  immemorially  established,  for  those  petty 
schfx^lmasters  wlio  teach  in  chapels,  or  temporary  hnia,  freely  to  instruct 
Hurh  poor  boys  as  come  from  remote  places,  and  are  unabh;  to  pay.  The 
poor  scholar,  while  he  remains  at  the  school,  goes  home,  night  and  night 
about,  witli  his  scliool-feilovvs,  whose  parents  tliat  can  afford  it  occasion- 
ally supply  him  with  a  few  old  clothes,  as  well  as  food  and  lodging.  Tliis 
ai)i>fars  to  be  a  faint  emanation  of  the  ancient  custom  in  Ireland,  so  cele- 
brat<'fl  Viy  historians,  of  supplying,  at  the  national  expense,  all  foreign 
students  with  meat,  drink,  clothes,  lodging,  books,  etc. 


SARAH    ATKINSON.  35 

farmers'  families  linen  and  woolen  stiifFs  were  spun, 
woven,  Icnitted,  bleached,  and  dyed,  and  made  into  wear- 
ing; apparel  by  the  women.  A  spinnini;- wheel  was  as  neces- 
sary a  part  of  the  fnrnitnre  as  a  pot  for  cookinij,'  the  stira- 
bout. Public-lionses  were  few  and  far  between,  facilities 
for  locomotion  were  not  abundant,  and  the  men  did  not 
range  to  anv  oreat  distance  from  home. 

Their  amusement  was  to  sit  by  the  fire  in  the  v/inter 
evenings,  or  smoke  their  pipes  at  the  door  in  summer,  lis- 
tening to  the  story-teller  or  the  singer,  while  their  wives 
and  daughters  knitted  or  spun :  all,  young  and  old,  being 
ready  to  break  out  into  a  dance  the  moment  a  piper  or 
fiddler  appeared  on  the  scene.  Perhaps  the  greatest  testi- 
mony borne  to  the  genuine  worth  of  the  poor  Irish  Cath- 
olics was  that  afforded  by  the  custom  which  prevailed 
among  the  Protestant  and  respectable  classes,  of  sending 
their  children  to  be  nursed  or  fostered  by  the  peasantry. 
Sons  and  heirs  destined  to  fill  prominent  and  honorable 
posts,  and  daughters  born  to  grace  luxurious  homes,  were 
in  all  trust  committed  to  the  care  of  peasant  women,  and 
grew  from  tender  infancy  to  hardy  childhood  in  the  moun- 
tain cabins,  sharing  the  homely  fare  and  joining  in  the 
simple  sports  of  their  foster  brothers  and  sisters.  One 
thing  was  certain :  the  nurse's  fidelity  and  affection  could 
be  implicitly  relied  on,  and  the  gentleman's  child  would 
have  no  vice  to  unlearn  when  transferred  from  the  peas- 
ant's guardianship  to  the  protection  of  the  parental  roof. 


SIR   ROBERT   STAWELL   BALL. 
(1840 ) 

Robert  Stavtell Ball.  LL.D.,  F.R.S..  was  born  in  Dublin,  .Tulvl, 
1840.  IIt>  is  the  son  of  Robert  Ball,  LL.  D. ,  of  Dublin  (the  well-known 
naturalist).  He  married  in  1863  Frances  Elizabeth,  the  daughter 
of  W.  E.  Steele,  the  director  of  the  Science  and  Art  Museum,  Dub- 
lin. He  Avas  educated  at  Abbott's  Grange,  Chester  ;  and  at  Trinit}^ 
College,  Dublin.  He  is  an  Honorary  M.A.  of  Cambridge,  1892,  and 
an  LL.D.  of  Dublin.  He  was  Royal  Astronomer  of  Ireland  from 
1874  to  1892,  and  Scientific  Adviser  to  the  Commissioners  of  Irish 
Lights  from  1884.  He  has  been  President  of  the  Royal  Astronomi- 
cal Society,  President  of  the  ]\Iathematical  Association,  and  Presi- 
dent of  the  Royal  Zoological  Society  of  Ireland.  His  title  was 
created  in  1886.  He  was  Lowndean  Professor  of  Astronomy  and 
Geometry  at  Cambridge.  He  is  a  Fellow  of  King's  College,  Cam- 
bridge, and  he  has  been  Director  of  the  Cambridge  Observatory 
since  1892. 

Sir  Robert's  publications  are  :  '  The  Theory  of  Screws '  ;  many 
memoirs  on  mathematical,  astronomical,  and  physical  subjects  ; 
and  the  following  works  on  Astronomy :  '  The  Story  of  the  Heavens,' 
1885  ;  '  Starland,'  1889;  '  In  Starry  Realms,'  '  In  the  Higli  Heavens,' 
'  Time  and  Tide,'  1889  ;  '  Atlas  of  Astronomy,'  1892  ;  '  The  Story  of 
the  Sun.'  1893;  '  Great  Astronomers,'  1895;  'The  Earth's  Begin- 
ning,' 1901. 

His  lectures  on  scientific  subjects  are  much  appi*eciated,  and  he  is 
well  known  on  the  lecture  platform  in  this  country.  He  has  a 
pleasing  manner  and  a  very  happy  method  of  presenting  abstruse 
matters  to  popular  audiences. 


THE  DISTANCES  OF  THE  STARS. 

From  'The  Starry  Heavens.' 

Now  about  the  distanoes  of  the  stars.  I  shall  not  make 
the  attempt  to  explain  fully  how  astronomers  make  such 
measurements,  but  I  will  i^ive  von  some  notion  of  how  it 
is  done.  W'e  make  the  two  observations  from  two  opposite 
points  on  the  earth's  orbit,  which  are  therefore  at  a  dis- 
tance of  186,000,000  miles.  Ima<(ine  that  on  Midsummer 
Day,  when  standing  on  the  earth  here,  I  measured  with  a 
piece  of  card  the  angle  between  the  star  and  the  sun.     Six 

'6{i 


y 


SIR    ROBERT   STAWELL   BALL.  37 

months  later  on,  on  Midwinter  Day,  when  the  earth  is  at 
the  opposite  point  of  its  orbit,  I  again  measure  the  angle 
between  the  same  star  and  the  sun,  and  we  can  now  deter- 
mine the  star's  distance  by  making  a  triangle.  I  draw  a 
line  a  foot  long,  and  we  will  take  this  foot  to  represent 
1S(>,000,000  mih's,  the  distance  between  the  two  stations; 
then  placing  the  cards  at  the  corners,  I  rule  the  two  sides 
and  compk'te  the  triangle,  and  the  star  must  be  at  the  re- 
maining corner;  then  1  measure  the  sides  of  the  triangle, 
and  how  many  feet  they  contain,  and  recollecting  that  each 
foot  corresponds  to  180, 000,000  miles,  we  discover  the  dis- 
tance of  the  star.  If  the  stars  were  comparatively  near 
us,  the  process  Avould  be  a  very  simple  one;  but,  unfor- 
tnuatelv,  the  stars  are  so  extremelv  far  off  that  this  tri- 
angle,  even  A\itli  a  base  of  only  one  foot,  must  have  its  sides 
nianj-  miles  long.  Indeed,  astronomers  will  tell  you  that 
there  is  no  more  delicate  or  troublesome  work  in  the  whole 
of  their  science  than  that  of  discovering  the  distance  of  a 
star. 

In  all  such  measurements  Ave  take  the  distance  from  the 
earth  to  the  sun  as  a  conveniently  long  measuring-rod, 
whereby  to  express  the  results.  The  nearest  stars  are  still 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  times  as  far  off  as  the  sun.  Let 
us  ponder  for  a  little  on  the  vastness  of  these  distances. 
We  shall  first  express  them  in  miles.  Taking  the  sun's  dis- 
tance to  be  93,000,000  miles,  then  the  distance  of  the  near- 
est fixed  star  is  about  twenty  millions  of  millions  of  miles 
— that  is  to  say,  Ave  express  this  by  putting  doAvn  a  2  first, 
and  then  Avriting  thirteen  ciphers  after  it.  It  is,  no  doubt, 
easy  to  speak  of  such  figures,  but  it  is  a  A^ery  different  mat- 
ter Avhen  Ave  endeaA'or  to  imagine  the  awful  magnitude 
Avhich  such  a  number  indicates.  I  must  try  to  give  some 
illustrations  Avhich  Avill  enable  you  to  form  a  notion  of  it. 
At  first  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  try  and  count  this  num- 
ber, but  Avhen  I  found  it  would  require  at  least  300,000 
years,  counting  day  and  night  Avithout  stopping,  before  the 
task  Avas  over,  it  became  necessary  to  adopt  some  other 
method. 

When  on  a  visit  in  Lancashire  I  Avas  once  kindly  per- 
mitted to  Adsit  a  cotton  mill,  and  I  learned  that  the  cotton 
yarn  there  produced  in  a  single  day  Avould  be  long  enough 
to  wind  round  this  earth  tAventy-seveu  times  at  the  equator. 


dil^^^Qr^ 


38  IKIiSU    LITERATURE. 

It  npi>oai's  that  the  total  production  of  cotton  yarn  each 
(lav  in  all  the  mills  touether  would  be  on  the  average  about 
155,0(10, ()()()  miles.  In  fact,  if  they  would  only  spin  about 
one-tifth  more,  we  could  assert  that  Great  Britain  pro- 
duced enough  cotton  yarn  every  day  to  sti*etch  from  the 
earth  to  the  sun  and  back  ai^ainl  It  is  not  hard  to  find 
from  these  fi<j;ures  how  long  it  would  take  for  all  the  mills 
in  Laiuashire  to  produce  a  piece  of  yarn  long  enough  to 
reacji  from  our  earth  to  the  nearest  of  tlie  stars.  If  the 
spinners  worked  as  hard  as  ever  they  could  for  a  year,  and 
if  all  the  pieces  were  then  tied  together,  they  would  extend 
to  only  a  small  fraction  of  the  distance;  nor  if  they  worked 
iov  ten  years,  or  for  twenty  years,  would  the  task  be  fully 
accomplished.  Indeed,  upwards  of  four  hundred  years 
Avould  b(»  necessary  before  enough  cotton  could  be  grown 
in  America  and  spun  in  this  country  to  stretch  over  a  dis- 
tance so  enormous.  All  the  spinning  that  has  ever  yet 
been  done  in  the  world  has  not  formed  a  long  enough 
tliread! 

There  is  another  way  in  whicli  we  can  form  some  notion 
of  the  immensity  of  these  sidereal  distances.  You  will  rec- 
ollect that,  when  we  were  speaking  of  Jupiter's  moons, 
I  told  you  of  the  beautiful  discovery  whicli  their  eclipses 
enalded  astronomers  to  make.  It  was  thus  found  that  light 
travels  at  the  enormous  speed  of  about  185,000  miles  per 
second.  It  moves  so  quickly  that  within  a  single  second 
a  ray  would  fiasli  two  hundred  times  from  London  to  Edin- 
bui'gli  and  l>ack  again. 

AVe  said  that  a  meteor  travels  one  liundred  times  as 
swiftly  as  a  rille  bullet;  but  even  this  great  speed  seems 
almost  nothing  when  compared  with  the  speed  of  light, 
whi<'h  is  10,000  times  as  great.  Sup])Ose  some  brilliant 
outbreak  of  liglit  were;  to  take  place  in  a  distant  star — an 
oiitbi'cak  which  would  l)e  of  such  intensity  that  the  flash 
from  it  wctuld  extend  far  and  wide  throughout  th€  uni- 
verse. The  light  would  start  forth  on  its  voyage  with  ter- 
rific speed.  Any  neigld)oi-ing  star  whicli  was  at  a  distance 
of  h'ss  than  1S5,000  mih.'S  wonbl,  f>f  course,  see  the  flash 
within  a  second  after  it  had  been  jirodnced.  More  distant 
bodies  would  receive  the  intimation  after  intervals  of  time 
pro7>ortioned  to  tlieir  distances.  Thus,  if  a  body  were 
1,000,000  miles  away,  the  light  would  reach  it  in  from  five 


SIR    ROBERT    ST  AW  ELL    BALL.  89 

to  six  seconds,  while  over  a  distance  as  great  as  that  whicli 
separates  the  eartli  from  the  sun  the  news  wouhl  be  car- 
ri<Hl  in  about  eight  minutes.  We  can  cahuhitc  liow  h)ug 
a  time  must  elapse  ere  the  light  shall  travel  over  a  distance 
so  great  as  that  between  the  star  and  our  earth.  You  will 
find  that  from  the  nearest  of  the  stars  the  time  required 
for  the  journey  will  be  over  three  years.  Ponder  on  all 
that  this  involves.  That  outbreak  in  the  star  might  be 
great  enough  to  be  visible  here,  but  we  could  never  become 
aware  of  it  till  three  jxnirs  after  it  had  haj^pened.  When 
we  are  looking  at  such  a  star  to-night  we  do  not  see  it  as 
it  is  at  present,  for  the  light  that  is  at  this  moment  enter- 
ing our  eyes  has  traveled  so  far  that  it  has  been  three  years 
on  the  way.  Therefore,  when  we  look  at  the  star  now  we 
see  it  as  it  was  three  years  previously.  In  fact,  if  the  star 
were  to  go  out  altogether,  we  might  still  continue  to  see  it 
twinkling  for  a  period  of  three  years  longer,  because  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  light  was  on  its  way  to  us  at  the  moment 
of  extinction,  and  so  long  as  that  light  keeps  arriving  here, 
so  long  shall  we  see  the  star  showing  as  brightly  as  ever. 
When,  therefore,  you  look  at  the  thousands  of  stars  in  the 
sky  to-night,  there  is  not  one  that  3'ou  see  as  it  is  now,  but 
as  it  was  years  ago. 

I  have  been  speaking  of  the  stars  that  are  nearest  to  us, 
but  there  are  others  much  farther  off.  It  is  true  we  can- 
not find  the  distances  of  these  more  remote  objects  with 
any  degree  of  accuracy,  but  we  can  convince  ourselves  how 
great  that  distance  is  by  the  following  reasoning.  Look 
at  one  of  the  brightest  stars.  Try  to  conceive  that  the 
object  was  carried  away  farther  into  the  depths  of  space, 
until  it  was  ten  times  as  far  from  us  as  it  is  at  present,  it 
would  still  remain  bright  enough  to  be  recognized  in  quite 
a  small  telescope;  even  if  it  were  taken  to  one  hundred 
times  its  original  distance  it  would  not  have  withdrawn 
from  the  view  of  a  good  telescope ;  while  if  it  retreated  one 
thousand  times  as  far  as  it  was  at  first  it  would  still  be  a 
recognizable  point  in  our  mightiest  instruments.  Among 
the  stars  which  we  can  see  with  our  telescopes,  we  feel 
confident  there  must  be  many  from  which  the  light  has 
expended  hundreds  of  years,  or  even  thousands  of  year??,  on 
the  journej^  When,  therefore,  we  look  at  such  objects,  we 
see  them,  not  as  they  are  now,  but  as  they  were  ages  ago; 


40  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

in  fact,  a  star  miirlit  have  ceased  to  exist  for  thousands  of 
years,  and  still  be  seen  by  us  every  night  as  a  twinkling 
point  in  our  great  telescopes. 

Kememberiug  these  facts,  you  will,  I  think,  look  at  the 
heavens  with  a  new  interest.  There  is  a  bright  star,  Vega, 
or  Alpha  Lyrje,  a  beautiful  gem,  so  far  off  that  the  light 
from  it  which  now  reaches  our  eyes  started  before  many  of 
my  audiem-e  were  born.  Suppose  that  there  are  astrono- 
mers residing  on  worlds  amid  the  stars,  and  that  they  have 
sufticiently  powerful  telescopes  to  view  this  globe,  what  do 
vou  think  thev  would  observe?  They  will  not  see  our  earth 
as  it  is  at  present;  they  will  see  it  as  it  was  years  (and 
sometimes  numy  years)  ago.  There  are  stars  from  which 
if  England  could  now  be  seen,  the  whole  of  the  country 
would  be  observed  at  this  present  moment  to  be  in  a  great 
state  of  excitement  at  a  very  auspicious  event.  Distant  as- 
tronomers might  notice  a  great  procession  in  London,  and 
they  could  watch  the  coronation  of  the  youthful  queen, 
Queen  Victoria,  amid  the  enthusiasm  of  a  nation.  There 
are  other  stars  still  further,  from  which,  if  the  inhabitants 
had  good  enough  telescopes,  they  would  now  see  a  mighty 
battle  in  progress  not  far  from  Brussels.  One  splendid 
army  could  be  beheld  hurling  itself  time  after  time  against 
the  immovable  ranks  of  the  other.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  there  are  stars  so  far  away  that  the  ravs  of  light  which 
started  from  the  earth  on  the  day  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo 
are  only  just  arriving  there.  Farther  off  still,  there  are 
stars  from  which  a  bird's-eye  view  could  be  taken  at  this 
very  moment  of  the  signing  of  ]\lagna  Charta.  There  are 
even  stars  from  which  England,  if  it  could  be  seen  at  all, 
would  now  ai>pear,  not  as  the  great  England  we  know,  but 
as  a  country  covered  by  dense  forests,  and  inhabited  by 
painted  savages,  who  waged  incessant  war  with  wild  beasts 
that  roamed  through  the  island.  The  geological  problems 
that  now  puzzle  us  would  be  cjuickly  solved  could  we  only 
go  far  enough  into  space  and  bad  we  only  powerful  enough 
telescopes.  We  should  then  be  able  to  view  our  earth 
through  the  successive  epochs  of  jiast  geological  time;  we 
should  be  actually  able  to  see  those  great  animals  whose 
fossil  remains  are  treasured  in  our  museums,  tramping 
about  ovj'r  the  earth's  surface,  splashing  across  its  swamps, 
or  swimming  with  broad  iiippers  through  its  oceans.     In- 


;Sf/A*    ROBERT    ST  AW  ELL    BALL.  41 

deed,  if  we  could  view  onr  own  earth  reflected  from  iiiirrorK 
in  the  stars,  we  mij^ht  still  see  INloses  crossinj^  the  Ked  Sea, 
or  Adam  and  Eve  being  expelled  from  Eden. 


WHAT  THE  STARS  ARE  MADE  OF. 

From  '  The  Starry  Heavens,' 

Here  is  a  piece  of  stone.  If  I  wanted  to  know  what  it 
was  composed  of,  I  should  ask  a  chemist  to  tell  me.  He 
would  take  it  into  his  laboratory,  and  first  crush  it  into 
powder,  and  then,  with  his  test  tubes,  and  with  the  liquids 
which  his  bottles  contain,  and  his  weighing  scales,  and 
other  apparatus,  he  would  tell  all  about  it;  there  is  so 
much  of  this,  and  so  much  of  that,  and  plenty  of  this,  and 
none  at  all  of  that.  But  now,  suppose  you  ask  this  chemist 
to  tell  you  what  the  sun  is  made  of,  or  one  of  the  stars. 
Of  course,  you  have  not  a  sample  of  it  to  give  him;  how, 
then,  can  he  possibly  find  out  anything  about  it?  Well, 
he  can  tell  you  something,  and  this  is  the  wonderful  dis- 
covery that  I  want  to  explain  to  you.  We  now  put  down 
the  gas  and  I  kindle  a  brilliant  red  light.  Perhaps  some 
of  those  whom  I  see  before  me  have  occasionally  ven- 
tured on  the  somewhat  dangerous  practice  of  making 
fireworks.  If  there  is  any  boy  here  who  has  ever  con- 
structed sky-rockets  and  put  the  little  balls  into  the  top 
which  are  to  burn  with  such  vivid  colors  when  the  explosion 
takes  i^lace,  he  will  know  that  the  substance  which  tinged 
tliat  fire  red  must  have  been  strontium.  He  will  recog- 
nize it  by  the  color;  because  strontium  gives  a  red  light 
Avhich  nothing  else  will  give.  Here  are  some  of  these  light- 
ning papers,  as  they  are  called;  they  are  very  pretty  and 
ver3'  harmless ;  and  these,  too,  give  brilliant  red  flashes  as  I 
throw  them.  The  red  tint,  has,  no  doubt,  been  produced 
by  strontium  also.  You  see  we  recognized  the  substance 
simply  by  the  color  of  the  light  it  produced  when  burning. 

There  are,  in  nature,  a  number  of  simple  bodies  called 
elements.  Every  one  of  these,  when  ignited  under  suitable 
conditions,  emits  a  light  which  belongs  to  it  alone,  and  by 


42  li^lSH    LITERATURE. 

^vlli(•h  it  can  be  distins^iiislied  from  every  other  substance. 
3hniy  of  tlie  materials  will  yield  light  Avhich  will  recjuire  to 
be  studied  bv  much  more  elaborate  artifices  than  those 
which  have  suthced  for  us.  But  you  will  see  that  the 
method  affords  a  means  of  finding  out  the  actual  sub- 
stances present  in  the  sun  or  in  the  stars.  There  is  a  prac- 
tical difficulty  in  the  fact  that  each  of  the  heavenly  bodies 
contains  a  number  of  diiierent  elements;  so  that  in  the 
light  it  sends  us  the  hues  arisin^g  from  distinct  substances 
are  blended  into  one  beam.  The  first  thing  to  be  done  is  to 
get  some  way  of  splitting  up  a  beam  of  light,  so  as  to  dis- 
cover the  components  of  which  it  is  made.  You  might  have 
a  skein  of  silks  of  different  hues  tangled  together,  and  this 
would  be  like  the  sunbeam  as  we  receive  it  in  its  unsorted 
condition.  IIow  shall  we  untangle  the  light  from  th-e  sun 
or  a  star?    I  will  show  you  by  a  simple  experiment. 

ITere  is  a  beam  from  the  electric  light;  beautifully  white 
and  bright,  is  it  not?  It  looks  so  pure  and  simple,  but  yet 
that  l)eam  is  composed  of  all  sorts  of  colors  mingled  to- 
gether, in  such  proportions  as  to  form  white  light.  I  take 
a  wedge-shaped  piece  of  glass  called  a  prism,  and  when  I 
introduce  it  into  the  course  of  the  beam,  you  see  the  trans- 
formation that  has  taken  place.  Instead  of  the  white  light 
you  have  now  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow — red,  orange, 
yellow,  green,  blue,  indigo,  violet.  These  colors  are  very 
beautiful,  but  they  are  transient,  for  the  moment  we  take 
away  the  prism  they  all  unite  again  to  form  white  light. 
You  see  what  the  prism  has  done ;  it  has  bent  all  the  light 
in  passing  through  it;  but  it  is  more  effective  in  bending 
the  l)lue  than  the  red,  and  consequently  the  blue  is  carried 
away  much  farther  than  the  red.  Such  is  the  way  in  which 
we  Ktudy  the  composition  of  a  heavenly  body.  We  take  a 
beam  of  its  light,  we  pass  it  through  a  prism,  and  imme- 
diately it  is  separated  into  its  components;  then  we  com- 
pare what  we  find  with  the  lights  given  by  the  different 
elements,  and  thus  we  are  enabled  to  discover  the  sub- 
stances which  exist  in  the  distant  object  whose  light  we 
have  examined.  1  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  method  is  a 
simple  one;  all  I  am  endeavoring  to  show  is  a  general  out- 
line of  the  way  in  which  we  have  discovered  the  materials 
jjrescnt  in  the  stars.  The  instrument  that  is  employed  for 
this  purpose  is  called  tlie  spectroscope.    And  perhaps  you 


SIR    ROBERT   STAWELL    BALL.  43 

may  rciiHMiilM'i'  lliat  iiainc  by  iliesc  lines,  which   I   have 
heard  from  an  astronomical  friend  : 

"  Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star, 
Now  wc  find  out  what  you  are, 
When  unto  the  midnight  sky 
We  the  spectroscope  apply." 

I  am  sure  it  will  interest  everybody  to  know  that  the 
elements  which  the  stars  contain  are  not  altoi>,('ther  differ- 
ent from  those  of  which  the  earth  is  made.  It  is  true  there 
may  be  siibstam-es  in  the  stars  of  which  we  know  nothing 
here;  but  it  is  certain  that  many  of  the  most  common  ele- 
ments on  the  earth  are  present  in  the  most  distant  bodies. 
I  shall  only  mention  one,  the  metal  iron.  That  useful  sub- 
stance has  l)eeu  found  in  some  of  the  stars  which  lie  at 
almost  incalculable  distances  from  the  earth. 


JOHN  BANIM. 

(1798—1844.) 

John  Baxdi,  "a  bright-hoartcd,  truc-souled Irishman,"  is  chiefly 
known  through  the  powerful  '  Tales  by  the  O'Hara  Family,'  which 
he  wrote  in  conjunction  with  his  elder  brother  Michael.  He  was 
born  in  Kilkenny,  April  3,  1798.  His  father  was  a  farmer  and  trader, 
who  gave  his  sons  a  good  education.  Instances  of  John's  precocity 
are  numerous  :  when  only  ten  years  old  he  had  written  a  romance 
and  some  poetry.  His  progress  at  school  was  rapid,  and  at  thirteen 
he  was  sufficiently  advanced  to  enter  the  college  of  his  native  town. 
Hero  his  decided  talent  as  a  sketcher  and  painter  tirst  developed 
itself,  and  when  his  father  gave  him  a  choice  of  professions  he 
determined  to  become  an  artist.  In  1814  he  went  to  Dublin,  and 
there  entered  tiie  Royai  Academy,  to  study  art.  After  two  years 
he  returned  to  Kilkenny  and  began  life  as  a  teacher  of  drawing. 
At  the  same  time  his  early  taste  for  literature  manifested  itself  in 
his  frequent  contributions  of  poems  and  sketches  to  the  local  period- 
icals. 

His  life  was  a  checkered  one.  His  first  serious  trouble  was  the 
death  of  a  young  lady  (one  of  his  pupils)  to  whom  he  was  engaged. 
This  blow  affected  his  mind  so  deeply  that  his  health  was  perma- 
nently injured,  and  he  passed  some  years  in  anaijnless  and  hopeless 
manner  nearly  akin  to  despair.  At  length,  by  the  advice  of  his 
friends,  he  resolved  to  try  change  of  both  scene  and  employment, 
and  in  1820  he  removed  to  Dublin  and  relinquished  his  profession 
of  art  for  that  of  literature.  At  this  time  his  contributions  to 
periodical  literature  were  very  numerous,  and  so  continued  through- 
out his  whole  career.  Were  it  now  possible  to  identify  these,  many 
of  them  would  pi'obably  add  little  to  his  fame  as  an  author,  since 
they  were  for  the  most  part  written  hurriedly  as  a  means  of  gain- 
ing a  living.  But  among  the  sketches  a  few  on  theatrical  topics, 
written  over  the  signature  of  "A  Traveler,"  appeared  in  a  Lime- 
rick journal,  and  were  remarked  as  particularly  clever.  In  1821 
he  published  '  The  Celt's  Paradise,'  a  poem  now  almost  forgotten  ; 
but  at  the  time  it  gained  recognition  of  the  talents  of  the  young 
author,  and  the  friendship  of  Shell  and  other  literary  men.  Banim 
now  attempted  dramatic  composition,  and  the  tragedy  '  Turgesius ' 
was  written  and  offered  in  succession  to  the  managers  of  Covent 
Garden  and  Drury  Lane  theaters,  but  was  rejected  l)y  both.  Not 
deterred  by  this  failui-e,  the  author  once  more  compos(;d  a  tragedy, 
'  Damon  and  Pythias,' which  through  the  reconnnendation  of  his 
friend  Shell  was  produced  at  Covent  Garden,  London,  in  1821,  and 
met  with  a  receijtion  which  amply  consoled  him  for  his  former 
disappointment. 

44 


'*?«^,^' 


JOHN   BANIM 

From  an  old  engrating 


JOE^    BANIM.  45 

In  the  summer  of  1S22  Banim  revisited  his  home  in  Kilkenny, 
and  during  his  stay  he  and  his  brother  Michael  planned  and  com- 
menced writing  the  first  series  of  the  '  O'Hara  Tales.'  He  married 
Miss  Ellen  Ruth,  and  subsequently  removed  to  London,  where  he 
continued  to  reside  for  several  years.  Here  he  resumed  his  neces- 
sary labor  as  a  periodical  writer.  In  April  of  the  following  year 
the  first  series  of  the  celebrated  '  O'llara  Tales  '  was  published,  and 
commanded  immediate  success.  '  John  Doe,  or  the  Peep  o'  Day ' 
and  '  The  Fetches '  were  John  Banim's  sole  work  in  this  first  series. 
His  next  work,  '  The  Boyne  Water,'  a  political  novel,  the  scenes  of 
which  are  laid  in  the  time  of  William  of  Orange  and  James  II., 
depicts  the  siege  of  Limerick  and  other  stirring  events  of  that 
troubled  period.  The  second  series  of  the  ' Tales'  appeared  in  182G, 
and  included  'The  Nowlans,'  which  was  severely  handled  by  the 
critics.  In  1828  '  The  Anglo-Irish  '  was  published.  It  was  different 
in  character  from  the  '  Tales,'  and  was  not  so  well  received.  In 
1829  the  concluding  series  of  the  '  Tales '  appeared,  commencing 
with  '  The  Disowned,'  the  work  of  John  Banim,  and  ending  in  1842 
with  '  Father  Connell,'  the  work  of  Michael. 

John's  healtli  now  began  to  decline  rapidly,  and  the  death  of  a 
child  and  the  illness  of  his  wife  pressed  heavily  upon  his  mind.  In 
1829,  by  the  advice  of  numerous  friends,  he  went  to  France  for 
change  of  scene,  but  still  continued  his  contributions  to  the  journals, 
and  wrote  besides  sevei-al  small  pieces  for  the  English  opera-house. 
In  1835  he  returned  home,  but  his  health  never  rallied,  and  on 
Aug.  13,  1844,  he  breathed  his  last,  aged  forty-six  years.  A 
provision  was  made  for  his  widow  ;  his  daughter  died  a  few  years 
after  her  father. 

The  '  O'Hara  Tales '  were  a  joint  production  in  so  far  that  they 
were  published  together,  and  one  brother  passed  his  work  to  the 
other  for  suggestions  and  criticism.  Those  written  by  John  Banim 
were  'John  Doe,  or  the  Peep  o' Day,'  '  The  Fetches,'  'The  Smug- 
gler,' 'Peter  of  the  Castle,'  'The  Nowlans,'  'The  Last  Baron  of 
Crana,'  and  'Disowned.'  We  quote  from  Chamber's  'Cyclopaedia 
of  English  Literature  '  the  following  estimate  of  Banim's  powers  as 
a  novelist  : — "  He  seemed  to  luiite  the  truth  and  circumstantiality 
of  Crabbe  with  the  dark  and  gloomy  power  of  Godwin  ;  and  in 
knowledge  he  was  superior  even  to  Miss  Edgeworth  or  Lady  Mor- 
gan. The  force  of  the  passions  and  the  effects  of  crime,  turbulence, 
and  misery  have  rarely  been  painted  with  such  overmastering 
energy,  or  w^rought  into  narratives  of  more  sustained  and  harrow- 
ing interest.  The  probability  of  his  incidents  was  not  much  at- 
tended to  by  the  author,  and  he  indulged  largely  in  scenes  of  hor- 
ror and  violence — in  murders,  abductions,  pursuits,  and  escapes  ; 
but  the  whole  was  related  with  such  spirit,  raciness,  and  truth  of 
costume  and  coloring,  that  the  reader  had  neither  time  nor  inclina- 
tion to  note  defects." 

"  W^here  his  songs  are  at  all  tolerable,"  says  Mr.  D.  J.  O'Dono- 
ghue,  ' '  they  are  full  of  fire  and  feeling,  and  written  with  quite  a 
natural  simplicity  and  strength.  .  . .  His  chief  fault  is  his  general 
disregard  of  metrical  laws." 


46  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

AN   ADVENTURE   IN    SLIEVENAMON. 

From  '  The  Peep  o'  Day.' 

[Lieutenant  Howard,  pursuins:  some  persons  over  the  mountain, 
lost  Ills  way,  and  in  springing  across  a  chasm  alighted  on  soft  turf, 
which  gave  way  and  precipitated  him  through  the  roof  of  an  illicit 
manufactory  of  spirits,  presided  over  by  Jack  Mullins.] 

The  first  perception  of  noward's  restored  senses  brought 
him  the  iutelliucnee  of  his  beins;  in  the  midst  of  an  almost 
insutt'erable  atmosphere,  oppressive  as  it  was  strange  and 
uinisnal.  He  breatlu'd  witli  dinicultv,  and  coughed  and 
sneezed  liimsidf  verv  nearly  back  aiiain  into  the  state  of  un- 
consciousness  out  of  which,  it  would  seem,  coughing  and 
sneezing  had  just  roused  him ;  for  he  gained  his  senses 
while  performing  such  operations  as  are  understood  by 
these  words,  When  a  reasonable  pause  occurred  and  that 
rcth^tion  had  time  to  come  into  play,  Howard  wondered 
\\hether  he  was  alive  or  dead,  and  whether  or  no  he  felt 
l)ain.  Due  consideration  having  ensued,  he  was  able  to  as- 
sure himself  that,  so  far  as  he  could  judge,  he  lived,  and 
without  much  pain  of  any  kind  into  the  bargain.  Next  he 
tried  to  stir  himself,  but  here  he  was  unsuccessful.  Some 
unseen  i)Ower  paralyzed  liis  legs  and  arms,  feet  and  hands. 
\Ut  lay,  it  was  evident,  u])on  his  back,  and  the  surface  he 
pressed  seemed  soft  and  genial  enough. 

While  in  this  position  he  looked  straight  upward.  The 
stars,  and  a  patch  of  deep  blue  sky,  twinkled  and  smiled 
u]»on  him  through  a  hole  in  a  low  squalid  roof  overhead. 
This  was  a  help,  lie  remembered  having  fallen  in  through 
the  slo])e  of  the  hill,  and,  as  an  aperture  must  have  been 
the  consequence  or  the  cause  of  his  descent,  he  ventured 
to  argue  accordingly.  lie  had  intruded,  it  would  rather 
s(MMii,  upon  the  private  concerns  of  some  person  or  persons, 
wlio,  from  motives  unknown  to  him,  chose  to  reside  in  a 
subterraneous  retreat  among  the  very  sublimities  of  Slieve- 
nanion.  Here  the  strange  scent  again  filled  his  nostrils 
with  overpowering  elYect.  There  was  some  part  of  it  he 
thought  he  could  or  ouglit  to  recollect  having  before  ex- 
j»eri<'iiced,  and  he  snilTed  once  or  twice  with  the  hope  of 
iiccomiug  satisfied.  Hut  a  fresh,  and,  In?  conceived,  a  dif- 
ferent effluvium  thereupon  rushed  up  into  his  head,  and 


JOHN    BANIM.  47 

down  his  throat,  and  he  had  ajj;aiu  to  sneeze  and  cough  his 
way  into  a  better  comprehension. 

When  Howard  was  in  this  second  effort  successful,  he 
observed  tliat  lie  dwelt  not  in  absolute  darkness.  A  pande- 
monium kind  of  li<iht  dismally  glared  around  him,  clouded 
by  a  dense  fog  of  he  knew  not  what  color  or  consistency. 
Was  lie  alone?  He  listened  attentively.  The  melancholy 
female  voice  that  he  had  heard  lamenting  at  the  cabin  and 
among  the  hills  came  on  his  ear,  though  it  was  now  poured 
forth  in  a  subdued  cadence.  Still  he  listened,  and  a  hissing 
of  A\'hispers  lioated  at  every  side,  accompanied  by  the  noise 
of  a  lire  rapidly  blazing,  together  with  an  intermittent  ex- 
plosion that  very  much  i-esembled  a  human  snore. 

Again  he  strove  to  rise  or  turn,  but  could  not.  "  I  will 
just  move  my  head  round,  at  all  events,"  thought  he.  He 
did  so,  very  slowly,  and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  those  of  Jack 
Mullins,  who,  bent  on  one  knee  at  his  side,  held  his  left  arm 
tightly  down  Avith  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  pre- 
sented a  heavy  horseman's  pistol.  Howard,  little  cheered 
by  this  comforter,  turned  his  head  as  slowly  in  the  other 
direction,  and  encountered  the  full  stare  of  another  ruf- 
fianly visage,  while  with  both  hands  of  his  attendant  he 
was  at  this  side  pinioned.  Two  other  men  secured  his 
feet. 

"  Where  am  I?  and  wh}'^  do  you  hold  me?  and  how  did  all 
this  happen?  "  asked  Howard,  as  he  began  to  comprehend 
his  situation. 

"  Hould  your  tongue,  and  be  quiet,"  said  Mullins. 

"  I  know  yon  well,  Jack  Mullins,"  resumed  Hoaa  ard. 
"  'T  is  some  time  since  we  met  at  the  Pattern,  but  I  know 
your  voice  and  face  perfectly  well." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Mullins.  "  Hould  your  pace,  I  tell 
you." 

"  You  surely  would  not  take  away  my  life  for  nothing. 
And  it  can  be  no  offense  to  ask  you  why  you  hold  me  down 
in  this  strange  manner." 

"  Bother,  man.    vSay  your  prayers,  an'  don't  vex  me." 

"  Mullins,  I  have  drunk  with  y(m  out  of  the  same  cup, 
and  clasped  your  hand  in  good  fellowship;  and  I  desire  you 
for  the  sake  of  old  acquaintance  to  let  me  sit  up  and  look 
about  me.    I  never  did  you  an  injury,  nor  intended  one." 

"  I  don't  know  how  that  is,"  observed  ^Mullins. 


48  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

''  Xovor,  bv  my  soul !  "  repeated  Howard  with  energy. 
"  This  unhappy  intrusion,  whatever  place  I  may  have  got 
into,  was  an  accident:  I  missed  my  way  among  the  hills 
and  wandered  here  unconsciously.  Let  me  up,  Mull  ins,  and 
you  shall  have  a  handsome  recompense." 

*'  The  divil  a  lalliua^  you  have  about  you,"  said  Mullins. 
"  Don't  be  talkiu'." 

"  As  you  have  foiuid  my  purse,  then,"  rejoined  Howard, 
easily  suspecting  what  had  happened,  "  you  are  most  wel- 
come to  it,  so  you  release  me  for  a  moment." 

"  An'  who,  do  you  think,  is  to  pay  us  for  the  roof  of  our 
ir<»()d,  snuu"  house  von  have  tattered  down  on  our  heads  this 
blessed  uin'ht?  "  asked  Mullins. 

"  I  will,  to  be  sure,"  replied  Howard,  "  who  else  should? 
Come,  Mullins,  bid  these  men  let  me  go,  and  you  '11  never 
be  sorrv  for  it.  Is  this  the  way  Irishmen  treat  an  old 
friend?'" 

"  For  the  sake  of  that  evening  we  had  together  at  the 
Pattern  you  may  get  up — that  is,  sit  up,  an'  bless  yourself. 
Let  him  go,  men,  bud  watch  the  ladder." 

The  three  other  men  instantly'  obeyed  Mullins'  orders, 
and,  Jack  himself  loosening  his  deadly  gripe,  Howard  was 
at  last  free  to  sit  up. 

''  Now,  never  mind  what  you  see,"  he  continued.  "  An', 
in  troth,  the  less  you  look  about  you,  at  all,  at  all,  so  much 
the  betther,  I'm  thinkin'."  And  ^Mullins  sat  down  oppo- 
site his  prisoner,  still  holding  the  cocked  pistol  on  his  arm. 

This  caution  seemed  in  the  first  instance  altogether  use- 
less, for  Howard  could  ol)serve  nothing  through  the  dense 
\ap()r  around  him,  excei)t,  now  and  then,  the  blank  and 
wavering  outline  of  a  human  figure,  flitting  in  the  remote 
parts  of  the  recess.  The  whispers,  however,  had  deepened 
into  rather  loud  tones;  but  here  he  was  as  much  at  a  loss 
its  ever,  for  the  persona  of  the  drama  spoke  together  in 
Ii'ish.  At  length  he  gained  a  hint  to  the  mystery.  A  young 
man,  stripped  as  if  for  some  laboiious  work,  approaching 
Mullins,  said,  somewhat  precipitately,  "  Musha,  Jack,  the 
run  'nil  go  for  nothin'  this  tim(^  unless  you  come  down  an' 
put  your  own  hand  to  the  still." 

Here,  th(.'n,  from  all  he  had  previously  heard,  an^l  could 
now  see,  smell,  and  conceive,  Howard  found  himself  in  the 

1  Lujjiiia,  a  halfpenny  (a  cent). 


JOHN    BANIM,  49 

presence  of  illicit  distillation,  at  work,  thouj2:li  it  was  Sun- 
day, in  all  its  vigor  and  glory.  He  snuffed  again,  and 
wondered  at  his  own  stupidity,  and  indeed  ingratitude, 
that  he  should  not  at  once  have  recognized  the  odor  of  the 
pottheen  atmosphere — a  mixture  of  the  effluvium  of  the 
liquor  and  the  thick  volumes  of  pent-up  smoke,  in  which 
for  some  time  he  had  lived  and  breathed. 

When  the  young  man  addressed  to  Mull  ins  the  words  we 
have  just  recorded,  that  person's  ill-boding  face  assumed  a 
cast  of  more  dangerous  maliguit}^,  and,  after  a  ferocious 
scowl   at   the   speaker,    he   said    with   much   vehemence: 

"  Upon  my  conscience,  Tim,  a-gra,^  you  're  afther  spakin' 
the  most  foolish  words  that  your  mother's  son  ever  spoke: 
an'  I  don't  know  what  bad  blood  you  have  to  the  Sassenach 
officer,  here,  that  you  couldn't  lave  him  a  chance  for  his 
life  when  it  was  likely  he  had  id.  Musha,  evil  end  to  you, 
Tim,  seed,  breed,  an'  generation ! — Mahurp-on-duoul !  ^ 
What  matther  was  it  if  the  whole  sJiot  went  to  Ould  Nick 
this  blessed  evenin',  providin'  we  didn't  let  strangers  into 
our  sacrets?  Couldn't  you  let  him  sit  here  awhile  in  pace? 
But  since  the  murther  's  out  take  this,  you  ballour  [bab- 
bler] o'  the  divil,"  giving  the  pistol,  "  while  I  go  down  to 
the  pot.  An',  Tim,  lave  well  enough  alone  now,  an'  if  you 
can't  mend  what 's  done  try  not  to  do  any  more.  Don't  be 
talkin'  at  all,  I  say;  you  needn't  pull  the  trigger  on  him 
for  spakin'  a  little,  if  it  isn't  too  much  entirely.  Bud  take 
care  o'  your  own  self,  Tim,  an'  hould  your  gab  till  I  come 
to  you  agin." 

After  this  speech,  the  longest  that  MuUins  was  ever 
known  to  deliver,  he  strode  away  from  Howard's  side  to- 
wards the  most  remote  end  of  the  place,  where  the  fire  was 
blazing.  Howard,  comprehending  that  Jack's  indignation 
was  aroused  because  of  the  revealing  summons  of  the 
young  man,  and  that  his  own  life  might  probably  be  sac- 
rificed to  his  innocent  advancement  in  knowledge,  very 
prudently  resolved  to  avail  himself  of  the  hints  contained 
in  the  harangue  he  had  heard,  by  observing,  in  Mullins'  ab- 
sence, the  most  religious  silence,  and  withal  the  most  nat- 
ural unconsciousness.  The  latter  part  of  his  resolve  was, 
however,  soon  rendered  superfluous  and  unavailing.  The 
wind  rose  high  abroad,  and  entering  at  the  recent  aperture, 

1  A-gra,  my  love.        2  Mdhurp-on-duoul,  My  soul  to  the  devil. 
4 


50  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

attributable  to  Howard,  took  an  angry  circuit  round  the 
cavern,  agitated  the  mass  of  smoke  tliat  tilled  it,  and  com- 
ju'lled  the  great  jiortion  to  evaporate  through  auother  vent 
at  the  opixtsitc  side,  lu  about  live  minutes,  therefoi-e,  the 
whole  details  of  the  apartment  became  visible  to  au}'  ob- 
server, nor  could  Howard  refuse  to  his  curiosity  the  easy 
investigation  thus  all'orded.  .  ,  . 

He  was,  however,  little  pleased  on  the  whole  with  the 
scone  revealed  by  the  ])artial  ex]Uilsion  of  the  smoke.  Mul- 
lius'  late  hints  still  rang  in  his  ears,  and,  while  contem- 
plating the  faces  of  those  round  the  fire,  the  unintentional 
visitant  thought  he  looked  on  men  who  would  have  little 
hesitation,  all  circumstances  of  prejudice  and  relative 
place  duly  weighed,  to  assist  the  master  rufitian  in  any  de- 
signs ujton  an  L^nglishman  and  a  redcoat.  Then  he  recol- 
lected his  untimely  absence  from  his  men;  the  intelligence 
Sullivan  had  given  him ;  the  disastrous  consequences  that 
to  them  might  ensue:  and  his  cheek  and  brow  flamed  with 
impatience;  while,  the  next  moment,  a  recurrence  to  his 
own  immediate  i)eril  corrected,  if  it  did  not  change,  their 
courageous  glow. 

The  young  man  who  had  relieved  guard  over  Howard 
well  obeyed  the  parting  orders  of  ^lullins,  for  he  did  not 
open  his  lips  to  the  prisoner,  contenting  himself  with 
watching  his  every  motion,  and  keeping  fast  hold  of  the 
pistol.  I'tter  silence,  therefore,  reigned  between  both,  as 
Howard  also  strictly  observed  his  own  resolution. 

After  he  had  fully  investigated  every  thing  and  person 
around  him,  and  when  thought  and  apprehension  found  no 
relief  from  curiosity,  this  blank  pause  disagreeably  af- 
fected him.  It  was  uncertainty  and  suspense;  fear  for 
others  and  for  himself;  or,  even  if  he  escaped  present  dan- 
ger, the  unhappy  accident  might  influence  his  future  char- 
acter and  prospects.  Under  the  pressure  of  these  feelings 
Howard  most  ardently  desired  the  return  of  ^Nlullins,  in 
order  that  his  fate  might  be  at  once  decided. 

And  in  his  own  due  time  ^Fullins  at  length  came.  Every- 
thing al)out  the  i)ot  seemed  i)rosperous,  for,  with  a  joj'OUS 
clatter  of  uncouth  sounds,  the  men  now  gathered  near  the 
worm,  and,  one  by  one,  held  under  it  tlie  large  shell  of  a 
turkey-egg,  which  was  subsequently  conveyed  to  their 
mouths,     ^fullins  himself  took  a  serious,  loving  draught, 


/0//A'    BANIM.  51 

and,  refilling  his  shell,  strode  towards  Howard,  bumper  in 
hand. 

"  First,"  he  said,  as  lu;  came  n\),  "  since  you  know  more 
than  you  ouiilit  about  us,  taste  that." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mullins,"  said  Howard,  "  I  should  not  be 
able  to  drink  it." 

"  Nonsense,"  resumed  Jack,  "  dhrink  the  Queen's  healtli, 
good  loock  to  her,  in  the  right  stuff,  that  is  made  out  o'  love 
to  her,  an'  no  one  else.  Drink,  till  you  see  how  3'ou'd  like 
it." 

"  I  cannot,  indeed,"  said  Howard,  wavering. 

"  Musha,  you  'd  betther,"  growled  Mullins.  Howard 
drank  some. 

"  So  you  won't  finish  it? — Well,  what  brought  you 
here?  " 

"  111  luck,"  answered  Howard,  "  I  knew  of  no  such  place 
— had  heard  of  no  such  place;  but,  as  I  told  you,  lost  my 
way,  and — and — in  truth  I  tund)led  into  it." 

"  And  well  you  looked,  didn't  you,  flyiu'  down  through 
an  ould  hill's  side  among  jjacable  jjeople? — An'  this  is  all 
thrue?  no  one  tould  you?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor,  all  true,  and  no  one  told  me." 

"  By  the  vartch  o'  your  oath,  now? — Will  you  sware 
it?" 

"  I  am  ready  for  your  satisfaction  to  do  so." 

"Well.  Where's  our  own  Soggarth,  Tim?"  coutinued 
Mullins,  turning  to  the  3^ouug  guardsman. 

"  In  the  corner  beyant,  readin'  his  breviary,"  replied 
Tim. 

A  loud  snore  from  the  corner  seemed,  however,  to  belie 
the  latter  part  of  the  assertion. 

"  Och,  I  hear  him,"  said  Mullins.  "  Kun,  Peg,"  he  con- 
tinued, speaking  off  to  the  girl,  "  run  to  the  corner  an'  tell 
Father  Tack'em  we  want  him." 

The  girl  obeyed,  and  with  some  difficulty  called  into  im- 
perfect existence  a  little  bundle  of  a  man,  who  there  la;v 
rolled  up  among  bundles  of  straw. 

"  What 's  the  matter  now?  "  cried  he,  as,  badly  balancing 
himself,  with  the  girl's  assistance,  he  endeavored  to  resuine 
his  legs,  and  then  waddle  towards  Mullins  at  a  short  du- 
bious pace. 

"  What 's  the  matter  at  all.  tliat  a  poor  priesf  can't  read 


52  IRIISH    LITERATURE. 


his  breviary  once  a  day  Avitliout  being  disturbed  by  you, 
you  pack  of — " 

"  Don't  be  talkinV'  interrupted  Mullins,  "  but  look  afore 
you,  an'  <;ive  him  the  Buke.'' 

''  The  Book,"  echoed  Father  Tack'em,  "  the  Book  for 
him  I  Why,  then,  happy  death  to  me,  what  brings  the  like 
of  him  among  us*?  " 

"  You  'd  betther  not  be  talkin',  I  say,  bud  give  him  the 
Buke  at  ouee,''  said  Mullins,  authoritatively;  and  he  was 
obeytnl.  Howard  received  from  Tack'em  a  clasped  volume, 
"  much  the  worse  of  the  wear,"  as  its  proprietor  described 
it;  and,  at  the  dictation  of  Mullins,  swore  upon  it  to  the 
truth  of  the  statement  he  had  already  made. 

"  So  far,  so  good,-'  resumed  Mullins,  "  an'  hould  your 
tongue  still,  ])lase  your  reverence,  it's  betther  fur  you. 
2\o\v,  Captain  Howard — " 

"  I  only  want  to  ask,  is  the  shot  come  off?  ''  interrupted 
Tack'em,  "  for,  happy  death  to  me,  I  'm  thirsty.  And,"  he 
mumbled  to  himself,  with  a  momentary  expression  that 
showed  the  wretched  man  to  be  not  unconscious  of  the  sin 
and  shame  of  his  dc^gradation,  "  it  is  the  only  thing  to 
mak(;  me  forget — "  the  rest  of  his  words  were  muttered  too 
low  to  be  audible  even  to  Howard,  beside  whom  he  stood. 

"  Here,  Tim,"  said  ^lullius,  giving  the  shell  to  the  young 
man,  and  taking  the  pistol,  "  go  down  to  the  worm  and  get 
a  dhro])  foi-  the  Soggartli." 

The  shell  returned  top-full,  and  Tack'em,  seizing  it 
eagerly,  was  about  to  swallow  its  contents  when,  glancing 
at  Howard,  he  stopped  short,  and  offered  him  "a  taste." 
The  politeness  was  declined,  and  Tack'em  observed,  with 
fresh  assumption  of  utter  flippancy: 

"  Ah,  you  haven't  the  grace  to  like  it  jet.  But  wait 
awhile.  I  thought  like  yourself  at  first,  remembering  my 
poor  old  Horace's  aversion  to  garlic — which,  between  our- 
selves, ^-vich,^  is  a  wholesome  herb  after  all";  and  he  re- 
peated the  beginning  of  the  ode — 

"  Parentis  olim  si  quis  impia  manu, 
Senile  guttur  fregerit — '' 

"  Bother,"  interrupted  Mullins,  "  oulcl  Hurrisli,  whoever 
he  is,  an'  barrin'  he  's  no  friend  o'  your  reverence,  could 

*  A-vich,  my  son. 


JOH^'    BANIM.  53 

never  be  an  honest  man  to  talk  o'  '  gutter '  and  the  pot- 
theen  in  one  breath." 

"  Oeh,  God  help  yon,  you  poor  i ignoramus,"  replied 
Tack'em,  drainino-  his  shell.  "  What  a  blessed  ignorant 
crew  I  have  round  me  I  Do  ijou  know  humanity,  iVvich?  " 
he  continued,  addressing-  himself  to  Howard. 

"  Nonsense,-'  interposed  Mullins,  "  we  all  know  that  in 
our  turns,  and  when  we  can  help  it.  Don't  be  talkin',  but 
let  me  do  my  duty.  I  was  a-sayin,  tVroon,"  ^  he  went  on, 
turning  to  Howard,  "  that  all  was  well  enough  so  far. 
Bud,  somehow  or  other,  I  'm  thinkin'  you  will  have  to  do  a 
thing  or  two  more.  'T  isn't  clear  to  myself,  a-gra,  but  you 
must  kiss  the  Primer  agin,  in  the  regard  of  never  sayin'  a 
word  to  a  Christhen  sowl  of  your  happening  to  stray  down 
through  that  hole  over  your  head,  or  about  any  one  of  us, 
or  anything  else  you  saw  while  you  were  stayin'  wid  us." 

Howard,  remem1)ering  that  part  of  his  duty  was  to  ren- 
der tLssistance  at  all  times  to  the  civil  power  of  the  country 
in  putting  down  illicit  distillation,  hesitated  at  this  prop- 
osition, doubtful  but  he  sliould  be  guilty  of  an  indirect 
compromise  of  principle  in  concealing  his  knowledge  of  the 
existence  and  situation  of  such  a  place.  He  therefore  made 
no  immediate  answer,  and  ]Mullius  vrent  on : 

"  There 's  another  little  matther  too.  Some  poor  gossips 
of  ours  that  have  to  do  with  this  Captain  John — God  help 
'em  ! — are  all  this  time  in  the  bog,  we  hear,  in  regard  o'  the 
small  misunderstand! n'  betwixt  you  and  them.  Well, 
a-vich.    You  could  jest  let  'em  out,  couldn't  you?  " 

"  I  can  engage  to  do  neither  of  the  things  you  have  last 
mentioned,"  said  Howard,  who,  assured  that  concession  to 
the  first  would  not  avail  him  unless  he  also  agreed  to  the 
second,  thus  saved  his  conscience  by  boldly  resisting  both. 

"  Don't  be  talkin',"  rejoined  Mullins,  "  throth  you  '11  be 
just  afther  promisin'  us  to  do  what  we  ax  you,  an'  on  the 
Buke,  too ;  "  and  his  eye  glanced  to  the  pistol. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  said  Howard,  "  my  honor,  my  char- 
acter, my  duty  forbid  it.  If  those  unfortunate  persons  yet 
remain  within  my  lines,  they  must  stay  there,  or  else  sur- 
render themselves,  unconditionally,  as  our  prisoners." 

"  I  don't  think  you  're  sarious,"  resumed  Mullins. 
"  Suppose  a  body  said — you  muM  do  this." 

"  I  should  give  the  same  answer." 

1  A-roon,  dear. 


54  TRT^ff    LITERATURE. 

"  Thonomon  iliioul  !^  don't  vex  me  too  well.  Do  you  see 
what  I  liiivc  ill  luv  hand?  " 

"  I  see  you  can  murder  me  if  you  like,  but  you  have 
hoard  my  answer." 

"  8t()]>,  you  bloodhound,  stop  I "  screamed  Tack'em. 
*'  Happy  death  to  iiie,  what  would  you  be  about?  Don't 
you  know  there  's  wiser  heads  than  yours  settlinj^  that  mat- 
ter? Isn't  it  in  the  hands  of  Father  O'Clery  by  this  time? 
An'  who  G;ave  vou  leave  to  take  the  law  into  your  own 
hands?"  ^ 

"Bother,"  said  ^Mullins,  "who'll  suffer  most  by  lettin' 
ill  111  t!;o?  Who  bud  myself,  that  <;ets  the  little  bit  I  ate,  an' 
the  dhrop  T  taste,  by  showiu'  you  all  how  to  manage  the 
still  through  the  counthry?  An'  wouldn't  it  be  betther  to 
do  two  things  at  once,  an'  get  him  to  kiss  the  Buke  fur  all 
I  ax  him?" 

"  You  don't  understand  it,"  rejoined  Tack'em,  "  you 
were  never  born  to  understand  it.  You  can  do  notliin'  but 
jmll  your  trigger  or  keep  the  stone  in  your  sleeve.  Let 
better  people's  business  alone,  I  say,  and  wait  awhile." 

Mullins,  looking  as  if,  despite  previous  arrangements,  he 
considered  himself  called  on,  in  consequence  of  a  lucky  ac- 
cident, to  settle  matters  his  own  way,  slowly  resumed: 

"  Then  I  '11  tell  you  how  it  '11  be.  Let  the  Sassenach  kneel 
down  iu  liis  straw,  an'  do  you  kneel  at  his  side,  plase 
your  reverence,  an'  give  him  a  betther  preparation  nor  his 
mother,  poor  lady,  ever  thought  he  'd  get.  Just  say  six 
Patterin'-Aavees,  an'  let  no  one  be  talking.  Sure  we  '11  give 
him  a  little  time  to  think  of  it." 

"  ^Murderous  dog!"  exclaimed  Howard,  with  the  tremu- 
lous energy  of  a  despairing  man ;  "  recollect  what  you  are 
about  to  do.  If  I  fall  in  this  manner  there's  not  a  pit  or 
nook  of  your  barren  hills  shall  serve  to  screen  you  from 
the  conse(|uencesI  Nor  is  there  a  man  who  now  hears  me, 
yet  refuses  to  interfere,  but  shall  become  an  accessory, 
ef|ually  guilty  and  punishal»le  with  yourself,  if  indeed  you 
dare  proceed  to  an  extremity  I  " 

"  Don't  be  talkin',"  said  ^lullins,  "bud  kneel  down." 

"  1  '11  give  V01I  mv  «-iii'se  on  iiiv  two  bended  knees  if  vou 
toucli  a  hair  of  his  head  I  "  Tack'em  cried,  with  as  mucli 
energy  us  his  muddled  brain  Avould  allow.     "  And  then  see 

*  Thonomon  duoul,  thy  soul  to  the  devil. 


J077iY    BANIM.  55 

how  you  '11  look,  going  about  on  a  short  leg,  and  j^our  elbow 
scratching  your  ear,  and  your  sliins  making  war  on  each 
other,  while  all  the  world  is  at  peace." 

"  An'  don't  you  be  talkiu',  ayther,"  resumed  INFullins, 
who  seemed  pertinacious  in  his  objection  to  the  prolonged 
sound  of  the  human  voice;  "  bud  kneel  by  his  side  an'  Ijear 
what  he  has  to  tell  you  first.  An'  then  say  your  Patterin'- 
Aavees." 

Evidently  in  fear  for  himself  Tack'em  at  last  obej'ed. 
The  other  men,  with  the  old  hag  and  tlie  girl,  gathered 
round,  and  Howard  also  mechanically  knelt.  He  was 
barel}^  conscious,  and  no  more,  of  the  plunging  gallop  in 
which  he  hastened  into  eternity.  He  grew,  despite  of  all 
his  resolutions  to  die  bravely,  pale  as  a  sheet;  cold  perspira- 
tion rushed  down  his  face;  his  jaw  dropped,  and  his  eyes 
fixed.  Strange  notions  of  strange  sounds  filled  his  ears 
and  brain.  The  roaring  of  the  turf  lire,  predomiuantly 
heard  in  the  dead  silence,  he  confusedly  construed  into  the 
break  of  angry  waters  about  his  head;  and  the  muttering 
voice  of  Tack'em  as  he  rehearsed  his  prayers  echoed  like 
the  growl  of  advancing  thunder.  The  last  prayer  was  said 
— Mullins  was  extending  his  arm — when  a  stone  descended 
from  the  aperture  under  which  he  stood,  and  at  the  same 
time  Flinn's  well-known  voice  exclaimed  from  the  roof: 
"  Take  that,  an'  bloody  end  to  you,  for  a  meddling,  niur- 
therin'  rap !  "     Mullins  fell  senseless. 

"  Bounce  up,  a-vich;  you  're  safe!  "  said  Tack'em,  while, 
kneeling  himself,  he  clasped  his  hands,  and  continued,  as 
if  finishing  a  private  prayer  that  had  previously  engaged 
him — "  in  secula  scculoriun — Amen! — Jump,  I  say — jump! 
— 0  festns  dies  hominis! — ri.jp  sum  apud  me! — jump!" 
but  Howard  did  not  rise  till  after  he  had  returned  ardent 
thanks  for  his  deliverance;  and  he  was  still  on  his  knees 
when  Flinn  rushed  down  the  ladder,  crying  out :  "  Tun- 
dher-un-ouns ! — it 's  the  greatest  shame  ever  came  on  the 
counthry! — a  burnin'  shame!  Och !  captain,  ^-vourneen,^ 
are  you  safe  an'  sound  every  inch  o'  you?  And  they  were 
goin'  to  trate  you  in  that  manner?  Are  you  in  a  whole 
skin?  "  he  continued,  raising  Howard  and  taking  his  hand. 

"  Quite  safe,  tliank  you,  only  a  little  frightened,"  said 
Howard,  with  a  reassured  though  faint  smile. 

1  A-vourneen,  my  beloved. 


56  IRIfiH    UTERATURE. 

SOGGARTH  AROON.i 

Am  I  the  slave  they  say, 
^ogyarth  uroonf 
Since  you  did  show  the  way, 

^oi](l<irilt  aroon. 
Their  shive  no  more  to  he, 
Wliile  they  would  work  with  me 
Old  Ireland's  slavery, 
boggart h  aroon! 

Loval  and  hrave  to  vou, 

Hof/(/arth  aroon. 
Yet  be  not  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you, 
Stand  u\)  so  near  to  you — 
Och  I  out  of  fear  to  you, 
boggart h  aroon! 

Who,  in  the  winter's  night, 

HoggartJi  aroon, 
When  the  cold  blast  did  bite, 

Hoggarth  aroon. 
Came  to  my  cabin  door, 
And.  on  the  earthen  floor, 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  i>oor, 
^oggarth  aroon  ? 

Who,  on  the  marriage  day, 

Hoggarlh  aroon. 
Made  the  ])oor  cal)in  gay, 

Hoggarth  aroon? 
And  did  J)oth  laugh  and  siu^, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring, 
At  the  ]»oor  christening, 
*Soggn  rt h  a roon  ? 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

boggart h  aroon, 
Never  did  (lout  me  yet, 
^ogga rt h  aroon  ? 
And  when  my  heart  was  dim 
Gave,  wliiie  his  eve  did  brim, 
NV'hat  I  should  give  to  him, 
^og garth  aroon? 

^Soggarth  aroon,  "Priest,  dear." 


JO /72V    BANIM,  57 

Och,  you  and  only  you, 

Soggarfh  aroon! 
And  for  this  1  was  true  to  you, 

Hog  garth  aroon: 
In  love  they  '11  never  shake, 
When  for  Old  Ireland's  sake 
We  a  true  part  did  take, 

Boy  garth  aroon! 


AILEEN. 

'T  is  not  for  love  of  gold  I  go, 

'T  is  not  for  love  of  fame ; 
Though  fortune  should  her  smile  bestow, 

And  I  may  win  a  name, 
Aileen ; 

And  I  may  win  a  name. 

And  yet  it  is  for  gold  I  go, 

And  yet  it  is  for  fame. 
That  they  may  deck  another  brow, 

And  biess  another  name, 
Aileen ; 

And  bless  another  name. 

For  this,  but  this,  I  go:  for  this 

I  lose  thy  love  awhile. 
And  all  the  soft  and  quiet  bliss 

Of  thy  young  faithful  smile, 
Aileen ; 

Of  thy  young  faithful  smile. 

And  I  go  to  brave  a  world  T  hate. 

And  woo  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  temi)t  a  wave  and  try  a  fate, 

Upon  a  stranger  shore, 
Aileen ; 

Upon  a  stranger  shore. 

Oh,  when  the  bays  are  all  my  own, 

T  know  a  heart  will  care. 
Oh,  Avhen  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won, 

I  know  a  brow  shall  wear, 
Aileen ; 

T  know  a  brow  shall  wear. 


5S  IRli<H    LITERATURE. 

And  when  with  both  returned  again, 

My  native  hmd  to  see, 
I  know  a  siiiilo  will  meet  me  then, 

And  a  hand  will  welcome  me, 
Aileen; 

A  hand  will  welcome  me. 


nE  SAID  THAT  HE  WAS  NOT  OUR  BROTHER. 

[This  ferocious  attack  was  provoked  by  some  utterances  of  the 
Duke  of  Wellington  about  Ireland.] 

He  said  that  he  was  not  our  brother — 

The  nioni!;rel  I  he  said  what  we  knew. 
No.  Eire  I  our  dear  Inland-mother, 

He  ne'er  had  his  black  blood  from  you ! 
And  what  though  the  milk  of  your  bosom 

Gave  vigor  and  health  to  his  veins? 
He  was  but  a  foul  foreign  blossom, 

Blown  hither  to  poison  our  plains! 

He  said  that  the  sword  had  enslaved  us — 

That  still  at  its  j)()iut  we  must  kneel. 
The  liar  I — though  often  it  braved  us, 

We  crossed  it  with  hardier  steel! 
This  witness  his  Richard — our  vassal ! 

His  Essex — whose  plumes  we  trod  down! 
His  Willy — whose  peerless  sword-tassel 

We  tarnished  at  Limerick  town! 

Xo!  falsehood  and  feud  vrere  our  evils, 

While  force  not  a  fetter  could  twine. 
C'ome   North  men — come   Noi-mans — come   Devils! 

We  give  them  our  ^partW^  to  the  chine! 
Ami  if  fmce  jignin  ho  would  try  us, 

To  the  music  of  trum|)et  and  drum, 
And  no  traitor  aTnf)ng  us  or  nigh  us — 

Let  him  come,  the  Brigand!  let  him  come! 

1  Sparth,  battle-axe. 


MICHAEL  BANIM. 

(179G— 1876.) 

Michael  Banim  was  born  in  Kilkenny  in  August,  1700,  and  for 
many  years  of  his  boyliood  lie  attended  school  in  his  native  tov/n. 
This  sehool  the  eccentric  proprietor  dignified  with  the  name  of 
"  The  English  Academy,"  and  a  true  and  amusing  picture  of  the 
school  and  its  master  is  drawn  in  the  pages  of  '  Father  Connell.' 
At  the  age  of  sixteen  he  decided  on  the  bar  as  a  profession.  After 
studying  law  for  two  years,  a  reverse  of  fortune  overtook  his  father 
and  undermined  his  health.  Michael  Banim  at  once  gave  up  his 
cherished  plans  for  a  professional  career,  applied  his  whole  energy 
and  perseverance  to  the  business,  and  at  length  had  the  satisfaction 
of  unraveling  the  complication  and  replacing  his  parents  in  com- 
fort. This  done,  he  used  his  leisure  hours  for  reading  and  stud}^ 
and  spent  his  spare  time  in  rambles  through  the  beautiful  scener,v 
of  County  Kilkenny.  In  these  journeys  he  won  the  confidence  of 
the  peasantry,  and  gained  that  deep  insight  into  their  daily  lives 
which  he  afterwards  reproduced  in  his  lifelike  character  sketches. 

His  brother  John's  arrival  on  a  visit  in  1822,  after  the  success  of 
his  drama  '  Damon  and  Pythias '  gave  a  new  direction  to  Michael's 
ideas.  In  one  of  their  rambles  John  detailed  his  plan  for  writing  a 
series  of  national  tales,  in  which  he  would  strive  to  represent  the 
Irish  people  truly  to  the  English  public.  Michael  approved  of  the 
idea,  and  incidentally  related  some  circumstances  Avhich  he  con- 
sidered would  serve  as  the  foundation  of  an  interesting  novel. 
John,  struck  with  the  story  and  the  clear  manner  of  its  narration,  at 
once  advised  Michael  to  write  it  himself.  After  some  hesitation 
the  elder  brother  consented,  and  the  result  was  one  of  the  most 
popular  among  the  first  series  of  '  The  O'Hara  Tales ' — '  Crohoore  of 
the  Bill  Hook.'  This  was  written,  as  were  his  succeeding  produc- 
tions, in  the  hours  which  he  could  spare  from  business.  To  assist 
John  with  his  work  'The  Boyne  Water,'  Michael  traveled  in  the 
south  of  Ireland  and  supplied  him  with  a  description  of  the  siege  of 
Limerick  and  the  route  taken  by  Sarsfield  to  intercept  the  enemy's 
supplies.  An  adventure  befell  him  during  this  tour,  wiiich  he  also 
placed  at  the  disposal  of  his  brother,  and  it  forms  the  introduction 
to  John  Banim's  novel  '  The  Nowlans.' 

In  1826  Michael  visited  his  brother  in  London,  and  there  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Gerald  Griffin,  John  Sterling,  and  other  celebrities. 
In  the  following  year  the  struggle  for  Catholic  Emancipation  was  in 
progress,  and,  putting  himself  under  the  leadership  of  O'Connell,  he 
devoted  his  energies  to  the  cause.  In  1828  '  The  Croppy'  appeared. 
He  had  been  engaged  on  this  work  at  intervals  during  the  previous 
two  years.  Although  not  so  full  of  striking  situations  nor  so 
sensational  as  '  Crohoore,'  the  characters  were  m.ore  carefully  draAvn 
and  the  coin]iosition  was  more  easy  and  natural.  For  some  time  now 
he  was  entirely  prostrated  with  severe  illness,   and  almost  five 

59 


60  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

years'elapsed  before  the  appearance  of  the  next  tale.  '  The  Ghost 
Hunter  and  his  Family.'  This  was  considered  by  the  critics  quite 
equal  to  the  best  of  '  The  O'Hara  Tales."  and  presents  a  striking 
picture  of  Irish  virtue.  •  The  Mayor  of  Windjrap '  appeared  in  1834, 
followed  by  'The  Bit  o'  Writin'/  '  The  Harerthe  Hound,  and  the 
Witch."  and  other  tales. 

About  1840  ilichael  married  MLss  Catherine  O'Dwyer.  At  this 
time  his  means  were  ample.  But  he  had  been  married  scarcely  a 
year  when  the  merchant  in  whose  care  his  property  had  been 
placed  failed,  and  ilichael  Banim  found  him.self  almost  a  ruined 
man  :  his  health  suffered  severely,  and  for  two  years  his  life  was 
despaired  of.  On  his  partial  recovery-  he  wrote  one  of  his  best 
novels — '  Father  Connell.'  In  this  work  the  author  sketches  to  the 
life  the  good  priest  whom  he  had  known  and  loved  in  his  childhood, 
and  we  find  the  piety,  simplicity,  and  peculiarities  of  Father 
O'Connell  reproduced  in  '  Father  Connell.' 

The  publisher  to  whom  this  novel  was  intruste«l  failed  after 
a  portion  of  it  was  in  type.  Tlie  failure  resulted  from  no  fault  of 
his  own,  and  in  time  he  was  able  to  resume  his  business.  This, 
however,  delayed  the  appearance  of  the  v-ork.  and  so  discouraged 
the  author  that  it  was  many  years  before  he  resumed  his  pen. 
•Clough  Fion  '  at  length  appeared  in  the  Duhlin  University  Maga- 
zine for  18.52.  and.  as  its  plot  turned  on  a  popular  grievance,  the 
country  evictions,  it  was  well  received.  '  The  Town  of  the  Cas- 
cades,' published  in  1864.  was  his  last  literary  work.  Its  purpose 
was  to  paint  the  awful  effects  of  the  vice  of  intemperance. 

In  1S7.3  he  was  forced  by  the  state  of  his  health  to  resign  his  situa- 
tion of  postmaster,  which  he  had  held  for  many  years,  and  to  retire 
with  his  family  to  Booterstown.  a  prettily  situated  coast  to^\-n  in  the 
county  of  Dublin.  He  expired  Aug.  30.  1S74,  leaving  a  widow 
and  two  daughters.  The  Premier,  Mr.  Disraeli,  interested  on  her 
behalf  by  Dr.  R.  R.  Madden  and  Mr.  Burke,  the  Under-Secretary 
at  Dublin  Castle,  granted  ilrs.  Banim  a  pension  from  the  civil  list. 

There  was  a  marked  contrast  between  the  work  of  the  brothers 
Rinim.  That  of  John  had  a  strong  and  versatile  character,  and 
was  often  gloomy  and  tragic  in  style  ;  while  that  of  Michael  dis- 
played far  more  humor,  a  much  more  sunshiny  temperament,  and  a 
greater  tendency  to  depict  the  brighter  side  of  life. 


THE  ENGLISH  ACADEMY. 

From  '  Father  Connell,  a  Tale.' 

Jammed  in  between  two  more  mo^^^lern  hou.scs  with  shop 
windows,  there  was  in  the  "main  street"  a  curious  old 
structure,  or  rather  a  .succession  of  very  curious  old  struc- 
ture.s,  situated  to  the  rear  of  this  introductory  one.  It  had 
a  high  parapeted  front,  over  which  arose  a  gable,  very 


MICHAEL   BANIM.  61 

sharp-angled  at  top,  and  surmounted  by  a  tall  roundish 
stone  chimney. 

A  semicircular  archway,  gained  by  a  few  steps,  ran 
through  it  from  the  street,  and  led  into  a  small  quadrangle, 
one  side  of  which  was  formed  by  its  own  back,  and  the 
other  three  sides  by  similar  old  buildings;  that  side  to  your 
left  being  partially  dilapidated.  A  second  semicircular 
archway  passed  under  the  pile  confronting  you,  as  you  en- 
tered the  inclosure  from  the  street,  and  gave  egress  into 
a  second,  but  larger  (]uadrangle.  Of  this,  tlse  far  or  top 
side  was  composed  of  one  range  of  an  older  edifice  still; 
that  behind  you  of  the  rear  of  the  house  that  fronted  you,  in 
the  lesser  quadrangle ;  that  to  your  right,  of  other  ancient 
buildings  entirely  ruinous;  and  that  to  your  left,  partly  of 
a  dead  Avail,  partly  of  a  shed,  before  which  was  a  bench  of 
mason-work,  and  partl^^  of  a  little  nook,  containing  some 
evergreens,  and  remarkable  for  affording  place  to  a  queer 
sentry-box  kind  of  structure,  built  of  solid  stone. 

And  now  there  was  yet  a  third  archway  before  you,  but 
much  narrower  than  the  others,  and  Y(}vj  much  darker, 
boring  its  way  under  the  lower  part  of  the  structure  facing 
you.  In  traversing  it,  your  eye  caught,  to  your  right  hand, 
doorAvays  imperfectly  filled  up  by  old  oak  doors,  half  hang- 
ing off  their  old-time  hinges,  and  leading  into  large,  unoc- 
cupied, coal-black  chambers;  and  when  you  emerged  from 
it,  the  cheery  daylight  was  again  around  you,  in  a  third 
enclosed  space,  of  which  the  most  remarkable  feature  was 
a  long  fiight  of  wide  stone  steps,  terminating  in  a  sharply 
arched  door,  Avhich  led  into  an  elevated  garden. 

Why  dwell  on  the  features  of  the  odd  old  place?  Has 
no  one  guessed?  Here,  Father  Connell  put  his  adopted 
son  to  school.  Here  was  the  scene  of  years  of  that  boj^'s 
pains  and  pleasures,  sports  and  tasks,  tears  and  laughter — 
likings  and  dislikings — friendships — nay,  of  a  stronger  and 
a  higher  passion,  which  though  conceived  in  mere  boyhood, 
passed  into  his  youthful  prime,  and  afterwards  swayed  and 
shaped  the  fate,  not  only  of  himself,  but  alas !  of  his  aged 
protector.  .  .  . 

In  the  middle  of  the  inner  quadrangle,  there  used  to  be 
a  roundish  space,  quite  smooth,  and  well  sanded  over, 
while  the  rest  of  the  yard  around  it  was  roughly  paved — 
and  could  human  foresight  have  contrived  anything  more 


62  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

api>ropriate  for  the  marble  ring,  aud  the  pe<>top  ring?  In 
"  liide  and  seek/'  where  could  the  appointed  seeker  find 
such  a  retreat  as  the  old  stone  sentry-box — the  boys  called 
it  an  old  confessional — in  which  to  (urn  away  his  head  and 
eyes,  until  the  other  urchins  should  have  concealed  them- 
selves among  some  of  the  fantastic  recesses  around  them? 
And  where  could  leap-frog  be  played  so  v/ell  as  under  the 
old  archways? — and  if  a  sudden  sliower  came  on,  how  con- 
veniently they  alTorded  shelter  from  it!  To  such  of  the 
boys  as  had  <()urage  for  the  undertaking,  what  ]>laces  above 
ground,  ay,  or  underground,  so  lit  for  enacting  "  tlie  ghost," 
as  were  the  pandemonium  retreats  of  the  black  chambers  of 
the  third  archway?  Was  there  ever  so  luxurious  a  seat 
for  a  tired  boy  to  cast  himself  upon,  fanning  his  scarleted 
face  with  his  hat,  as  that  offered  to  him  by  the  bench  in 
the  larger  (piadrangle,  canopied  overhead  l)y  its  two 
umbrageous  sycamores,  one  at  its  either  end?  Or,  if  a  poor 
boy  happened  to  play  too  much,  and  too  long,  and  were 
summoned  up  to  his  task,  witliout  having  conned  a  single 
word  of  it,  Avhat  crumbling  old  walls  under  the  sun  could 
com])are  with  those  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  square,  for 
sujiplyiug  in  perfection  a  weed  called — locally  at  least— 
"  Peniterry,"  to  which  the  suddenly  terrified  idler  might 
run  in  his  need,  grasping  it  hard  and  threateningly,  and 
repeating  the  following  "  words  of  power  ": 

"  Peniterry,  peniterry,  that  grows  by  the  wall, 
Save  me  from  a  whipping,  or  I  pull  you  roots  and  all"  ? 

And  there  was  a  third  sycamore,  in  a  corner  belonging  to 
a  tlirush,  who  from  year  to  year  l)uilt  her  nest,  and  brought 
forth  lier  young  in  it,  and  she  was  the  best-fed  thrush  in 
the  A\orld.  ITer  nest  lay  almost  on  a  level  with  one  of  the 
schoolroom  windows — you  could  nearly  touch  her,  by 
stretching  out  your  arm  from  it — and  outside  this  window 
projected  a  broken  slate,  constantly  ke])t  tilled  v.ith  various 
kinds  of  ])rovisions,  for  her  and  her  family.  Her  husband 
seemed  to  grow  lazy  under  these  circumstances.  lie  would 
scarce  ever  leave  home  in  quest  of  food,  and,  indeed,  do 
little  else  than  y)erch  upon  the  very  topmost  bough  over 
her  head,  and  whistle  to  her  all  day  long.  As  for  herself, 
she  seemefl,  out  of  her  trustiness  in  Iier  IK  tie  purveyors,  to 


MICHAEL    BAXIM.  63 

live  in  a  deli^litful  state  of  happy  quietude.  Not  a  bit 
startled  was  she,  or  even  put  out,  by  all  their  whoopings 
and  uproar  in  the  3'ard  below.  Nay,  she  seemed  to  take  a 
matronly  interest  in  their  studies  too;  for  the  boys  of  the 
liead  class,  during  school-hours,  could  plainly  see  her  sit- 
ting on  her  eggs,  while  the}-  sat  to  their  books  or  slates, 
and  they  would  fancy  that  her  little,  round,  diamonded  eye 
us(mT  to  be  watching  them. 

AWdl.  The  old  house  confronting  you,  as  you  entered 
the  first  quadrangle  from  the  street,  and  the  rear  of  which 
looked  into  the  second  quadrangle,  was  the  old  school- 
house.  Passing  its  sharply  arched  doorway  of  stone,  you 
entered  a  hall,  floored  with  old  black  oak,  and  ascended  a 
spiral  staircase  of  black  oak,  coiling  round  an  upright  of 
black  oak,  and  stepped  into  the  schoolroom,  floored  with 
black  oak,  and  divided  by  a  thick  partition  of  black  oak 
from  the  master's  bedchamber;  in  fact,  all  the  partitions, 
all  the  doors,  all  the  stairs,  all  the  ceiling-beams — and 
ponderous  things  they  were — downstairs,  and  upstairs, 
through  the  interior  of  the  crude  old  edifice,  were  all,  all 
old  black  oak,  old  black  oak,  nearly  as  hard  as  flint,  and 
seemingly  rough  from  the  hatchet,  too;  and  the  same  was 
the  case  in  the  interiors  of  the  other  inhabitable  portions 
of  the  concatenation  of  ancient  buildings. 

Through  the  partition  separating  his  bedchamber  from 
the  schoolroom  the  head  of  the  seminary  had  bored  a  good 
many  holes,  nearly  an  inch  in  diameter,  some  straight- 
forward, some  slantingly,  to  enable  himself  to  peer  into 
every  corner  of  the  study,  before  entering  it  each  morning; 
and  this  is  to  be  kept  in  mind.  At  either  end  of  the  long 
apartment  was  a  large  square  window,  framed  with  stone, 
and,  indeed,  stone  also  in  its  principal  divisions.  Over- 
head ran  the  enormous  beams  of  old  oak,  and  in  the  spaces 
between  them  were  monotonous  flights,  all  in  a  row,  and 
e(iuall3^  distant  from  each  other,  of  monotonous  angels,  in 
stucco — the  usual  children's  heads,  with  goose  wings  shoot- 
ing from  under  their  ears;  and  sometimes  one  or  two  of 
these  angels  became  fallen  angels,  flapping  down  on  clipped 
wings  either  upon  the  middle  of  the  floor,  or  else  upon  tlfC 
boys'  heads,  as  they  sat  to  their  desks,  and  confusing  them, 
and  their  books,  and  slates  witli  fragments  of  stucco  and 
mortar,  rotten  laths,  and  rusty  nails. 


64  IRfSH    LITERATURE. 

In  a  kind  of  recess,  on  tlie  side  of  the  schoolroom  oppo- 
site to  the  boys'  double  desks,  was  an  old  table,  flanked  by 
a  form,  to  which,  at  certain  hours  of  the  da}',  sat  some  half- 
(h)7.en  young  girls,  from  six  to  ten  years,  who  came  up  from 
the  quaint  old  parlor  below,  under  the  care  of  the  master's 
ilaughter,  who  therein  superintended  their  education  in  in- 
ferior matters,  to  be  occasionally  delivered  into  his  hands 
for  more  excelling  insd'uction. 

The  principal  of  this  celebrated  seminary  wrote  himself 
down  in  full,  and  in  a  precise,  round  hand,  James  Charles 
I>uchmahon;  and  his  establishment  as  "  the  English  Acad- 
emy "; — ])rincipal  we  have  called  him — despotic  monarch, 
we  should  have  called  him;  for  he  never  had  had  more 
tlian  one  assistant,  and  the  head  of  that  one  he  broke 
before  tliev  had  been  manv  weeks  together. 

And  never  were  absolute  monarchy,  and  deep  searching 
scrutiny,  more  distinctly  stamped  and  carved  on  any  coun- 
tenance, than  upon  that  of  James  Charles  Buchnmhon, 
master  of  the  l']ngiish  Academy.  And  that  countenance 
was  long  and  of  a  soiled  sallow  color;  and  the  puckering 
of  his  brows  and  eyelids  awful;  and  the  unblinking 
steadiness  of  his  bluish  gray  eyes  insufferable;  and  the 
c()ld-l»looded  resoluteness  of  his  marbly  lips  unrelaxable. 
At  the  time  we  speak  of  him,  James  Charles  Buchmahon 
might  have  l)een  between  fifty  and  sixty,  but  he  wore  well. 
lie  was  tall,  with  a  good  figure  and  remarka})ly  well-turned 
Jindjs,  "  and  he  had  the  gift  to  know  it,"  for  in  order  not  to 
hide  a  point  of  the  beauty  of  those  limbs  from  the  world, 
lie  always  arrayed  them  in  very  tight-fitting  pantaloons, 
which  reached  down  to  his  ankles.  His  coat  and  waist- 
coat were  invariably  black.  A  vei-y  small  white  muslin 
cravat,  and  a  frill  sticking  out  (juite  straight  from  his 
breast,  occupied  the  space  from  his  chin  to  his  waist.  And 
James  Charles  Buchmahon's  hat  was  of  cream-color 
beaver,  high  crowned,  and  broad  brimmed:  and  he  even 
carried  either  a  formidable  walking-stick  of  stout  oak,  or 
else  a  substitute  for  it  made  of  five  or  six  peeled  switches, 
cunningly  twisted  together,  and  at  one  end  loaded  with 
lead.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  even  the  redoubtable  James  Charles  Buch- 
malion,  master  of  the  English  Academy,  used  to  indulge  in 
a  .social  glass  after  dinner — nay,  after  supper,  too,  with  a 


MICHAEL    BANIM.  65 

few  select  friends;  and  the  following!:  day  was  sure  to  re- 
main longer  than  was  his  wont,  in  his  bedchamber.  By 
some  means  or  other,  tlie  youuj;-  j;entlemen  of  his  seminary 
were  scarcely  ever  ignorant  of  the  recurrences  of  such 
evenings;  and  consequently,  for  an  hour  or  so,  upon  the 
mornings  that  succeeded  them,  the  schoolroom  of  the 
English  Academy  used  to  be  very  unusually  relaxed  in  dis- 
cipline. It  was,  indeed,  rather  a  venturesome  thing,  even 
with  the  temptation  mentioned,  to  utter  a  loud  breath,  or 
for  a  moment  vacate  a  seat,  when,  as  will  be  remembered, 
the  young  students  were  divided  from  the  awful  bedroom 
by  an  oak  plank,  solely;  to  say  nothing  of  the  spy-holes 
which  James  Charles  Buchmahon  had  bored  through  the 
old  partition. 

It  is  evident,  however,  to  the  meanest  capacity — and 
even  George  Booth  quite  understood  the  matter — that  if 
the  spy-holes  were  good  for  the  master's  espioiuiage  upon 
the  boys,  they  were  just  as  good  for  the  cspionnagc  of  the 
boys  upon  the  master — and,  indeed,  they  were  as  often 
used  one  way  as  the  other.  Almost  every  morning  in  the 
year,  reconnoitering  parties  were  appointed  from  the  first 
and  second  classes,  who,  with  the  help  of  those  spy-holes, 
and  their  own  eyes,  telegraphed  through  the  school  the 
most  minute  proceeding  of  James  Charles,  from  the  instant 
he  gave  the  first  stir  in  his  bed,  until  he  laid  his  hand  on 
the  door-handle,  to  pass  out  to  begin  his  duties  for  the 
day;  and  it  need  not  be  added,  that  upon  the  especial 
occasions  of  stolen  enjoyment  alluded  to,  our  young 
acquaintances  were  most  particularly  watchful.  It  is, 
then,  one  of  these  half-holiday  mornings  before  breakfast. 
The  school  abounds  with  fun  and  gambol,  Neddy  Fennell 
being  one  of  the  greatest,  if  not  the  very  greatest  truant 
among  all  his  compeers.  James  Charles  has  been  sleeping 
later  than  ever  was  known  before;  and  his  subjects,  believ- 
ing that  he  must  have  been  very  drunk  indeed  the  previous 
night,  happily  conjecture  that  he  may  not  waken  time 
enough  for  the  morning  lessons — nay,  nor  for  the  afternoon 
lessons — nay,  that  under  Providence  he  may  never  waken 
at  all. 

But  a  change  soon  occurred  in  Neddy  Fennell's  sportive 
idling. 

Mention  has  been  made  of  some  very  dirty  fellows  in 
5 


60  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

the  Eiiiilish  Ac-ademy.  They  were  in  their  own  way  jocose 
fellows,  too,  particularly  upon  this  memorable  morniu<r. 
Tlu-y  hail  prepared  a  little  blank  paper  book,  and  written 
upon  each  of  its  pa,ues  words  that  betokened,  they  said,  a 
future  fortune  of  some  kind  or  other,  to  any  or  everybody 
who,  by  insinuatinji-  a  pin  between  two  of  its  leaves,  should 
cause  the  mystic  volume  to  unfold.  The  device  was  not  a 
very  oriiiinal  one  in  the  school;  and  when  practiced  b^^ 
boys  of  anythiu<i-  like  neatness  of  mind,  produced  much 
harmless  fun.  But  in  their  hands  the  simple  playthinij, 
from  the  nature  of  the  matter  they  had  scribbled  throu<j:,h 
it,  de«ienerated,  <»f  course,  merely  into  a  vehicle  of  nastiness, 

Xeddy  Fennell  i)assed  them  after  they  had  just  olfended 
— av,  and  abashed  to  the  verv  crown  of  his  head,  Tommv 
Palmer,  by  inducing;  him  to  read  his  future  destiny;  our 
little  friend  could  also  see  that  James  Graham's  eves  were 
fixed  on  the  dirty  fellows  with  deep  indignation.  They  en- 
j(»yed,  however,  the  success  of  their  joint  invention  in  fits 
of  smothered  laughter;  and  he  overheard  them  ari-ange  to 
have  "  rare  sport  "  among  the  girls  at  the  other  xide  of  the 
room,  so  soon  as  they  should  come  up  from  the  parlor  to 
receive  their  morning  lessons  at  the  hands  of  James 
Charles  Ruchmahon.  He  started,  reddened,  and  said, 
"  I  '11  trv  mv  fortune  too." 

They  held  the  book  of  prophecy  to  him.  He  divided  its 
leaves  in  the  usual  manner,  and  read  something  very  like 
what  he  had  expected.  He  turned  over  some  more  of  its 
leaves,  and  became  satisfied  of  the  nature  of  all  its  contents. 
Just  tlien,  the  young  girls  entered  the  schoolroom,  chajie- 
roned  bv  their  mistress  as  far  as  the  door.  Xeddv  glanced 
towards  one  of  the  little  troo{),  and  his  blood  boiled. 

"  You  shall  never  take  this  fortune-book  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  you  blackguards,"  said  Neddy. 

"  An'  who  '11  hinder  us?  "  asked  they. 

"I  '11  hinder  you,"  he  replied,  and  lie  put  the  l)Ook  into 
one  of  t!i(;  side  j}Ockets  of  his  jacket. 

There  was  a  remonstrance,  and  then  a  i)ulling  and  drag- 
ging scullle,  and  at  last  a  boxing-match;  the  two  dirty 
fellow.s,  now  even  more  cowardly  than  they  v,ere  dirty, 
falling  together  u7)on  one  little  boy,  much  tlieir  inferior  in 
years,  height,  weight,  and  strength,  while  he,  nothing 
daunted,  jumped  about  them,  rolling  his  little  fists  round 


MICHAEL    BAXIM.  07 


in 


eacli  other,  making-  a  j>o()(l  hit  whenever  he  couhl,  and 
taking  all  their  heavy  piuiishnieut  like  a  Trojan.  But  he 
could  not  fail  having  the  worst  of  it.  Ilis  lips  and  nose 
were  bruised,  and  spouted  with  blood;  his  left  eye  became 
unwillingly  half  shut  up,  and  he  staggered  often,  and  was 
clean  knocked  down  at  last. 

A  little  scream  came  from  the  girls'  table,  and  at  the 
same  moment  one  of  the  dirty  fellows  said,  "  The  master 
is  coming  out," 

"  Wait  till  I  see,"  said  Neddy,  "  and  if  he  is  not,  I  '11 
come  back  to  you." 

He  ran  round  the  long  desk,  and  was  just  applying  his 
eye — his  only  available  one — to  one  of  the  spy-holes,  when, 
3'e  gods! — another  eye,  a  well-known,  large,  gray,  bluish 
eye,  a  cold,  shiny,  white  and  blue  delft  eye,  was  in  the  act 
of  doing  the  same  thing  at  the  other  side  of  the  auger- 
hole. 

Neddy's  first  impulse  was,  of  course,  to  start  back  in 
terror;  but  the  next  instant,  he  stuck  his  own  eye  as  closely 
as  ever  he  could,  into  the  opening,  shrewdly  judging  that 
such  a  proceeding  was  the  only  one  which  could  hinder  his 
opponent  from  noting  and  ascertaining  his  personal  iden- 
tity. And  now  it  became  a  real  trial  of  skill  and  endur- 
ance between  the  two  eyes ;  but,  oh !  the  horrors  of  the 
ordeal  that  Neddy  had  to  endure!  Sometimes,  the  large 
grayish  blue  eye  would  withdraw  itself  about  the  fourth 
part  of  an  inch,  from  its  own  side  of  the  partition,  as  if 
to  admit  light  enough  into  the  orifice,  to  enable  it  to  mark 
the  rival  orb,  and  connect  it  with  its  owner;  and  then,  the 
cold,  freezy  scintillations  which  shot  from  it  curdled  his 
very  blood !  Sometimes  it  would  adhere  as  closely  to  its 
end  of  the  hole,  as  did  Neddy's  at  the  other  end ;  and  then 
all  was  darkness  to  Neddy's  vision — but  he  thought  the 
fringes  of  the  two  eyelids  touched !  and  his  trembling 
limbs  scarce  supported  him.  He  winked,  and  blinked,  and 
so  did  the  antagonist  organ,  and  then  he  became  assured 
that  the  opposing  eyelashes  absolutely  intertangled,  and 
felt  as  if  his  own  optic  w^as  to  be  drawn  out  of  his  head. 
Mental  delusion  almost  possessed  him.  The  cold,  grayish 
blue  eye  seemed  to  become  self-irradiated,  and  to  swell 
into  the  compass  of  a  shining  crown-piece,  while  it  darted 
into  his  rays  of  excruciating  light. 


G8  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Still,  however,  lie  e<mraj;eously  held  on,  until  at  last, 
James  Charles  Buehniahon  i>ave  up  the  contest,  and  with- 
drew towards  his  bedroom  door;  upon  which  Neddy 
hastened  to  his  place  at  his  desk,  but  not  before  he  had 
ascertained  by  a  glance  across  tlie  room,  that  the  dirty 
fellows,  havinii'  likhed  the  fortune-book  from  his  pocket 
duriuj;  his  late  trepidation,  were  in  the  act  of  introducin<»- 
it  to  the  notice  of  the  little  dames,  who  sat  to  the  old  table 
in  the  recess.  In  fact,  the  alarm  that  had  been  given  by  one 
of  the  dirty  fellows,  that  *'  the  master  was  coming,"  was 
but  a  ruse  to  send  Neddy  to  the  S])y-hole,  in  order  to  enable 
himself  the  more  easily  to  recover  his  precious  property*; 
and  this  was  now  evident,  from  the  two  friends  being  seen, 
without  the  least  apprehension  of  the  approach  of  that  said 
master,  endeavoring,  in  high  glee,  to  impart  a  portion  of 
(heir  own  nastiness  to  the  pui-e  little  hearts  and  minds  be- 
fore them.  Neddy  had  scarcely  resumed  his  seat  when 
.lames  Charles  entered  the  schoolroom,  and  Neddy's  eyes, 
or  rather  eye,  fastened  on  his  book.  Almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, the  little  voice — Neddv  knew  it  well — which  had 
before  uttered  a  little  scream,  broke  into  a  sudden  fit  of 
crying.  Neddy  again  glanced  at  the  girls'  table.  The 
<hild  who  was  crying  had  just  flung  into  the  middle  of  the 
room  the  atrocious  fortune-book ;  and  he  was  about  to 
vault  across  the  dt^sk  a  second  time,  to  possess  himself  of 
the  evidence  of  blackguardism,  when  James  Charles  Bueh- 
niahon saved  him  the  trouble,  by  picking  it  up  himself. 

The  two  detected  dirty  fellows  were  slinking  to  their 
places.  "  Have  the  goodness  to  stand  where  ye  are,  gen- 
tlemen," entreated  James  diaries  Buchraahon.  They 
Kt(»od  stock  still  l>efore  liim.  He  sat  down  to  his  desk,  put 
on  his  spectacles,  and  <l(diberately  began  to  read  the  for- 
t)iii('-]»ook. 

In  a  few  seconds  h«'  suddenly  stopped  reading,  drew  his 
chair  smartly  back  from  his  desk,  i-aised  his  hands  and 
eyes,  and  then  screwed  the  latter  into  those  of  the  base  cul- 
prits; he  resumed  liis  studies,  again  pushed  back  from  the 
desk,  again  made  a  silent  appeal  upwards,  and  again  as 
sib'ntly  told  the  two  dirty  fellows  what  he  tliought  of  their 
playful  device,  and  of  tlienjselv(*s,  and  what  they  had  to 
expect  for  their  cleverness.  Having  (|uite  finished  the  rare 
volume,  he  stood  up,  and  beckoned  them  towards  him. 


MICHAEL    BANIM.  69 

Thej  came.  He  held  it  open  in  his  hand,  before  their 
eyes,  pointed  to  it,  and  uttered  the  one  word,  "  Read."  He 
then  pointed  to  the  girls'  table,  tapped  the  now  closed  book 
with  his  forefinger;  slowly  opened  his  desk,  slowly  de- 
posited therein  the  "  sybilline  leaves,"  and  uttered  another 
monosyllable — "  Kneel." 

The  despairing  blackguards  knelt. 

"No!"  interrupted  James  Charles  Buchmahon,  with 
great  and  severe  dignity,  stepping  back  from  them — "  I 
was  wrong;  do  not  kneel;  go  on  all-fours;  prop  yourselves 
on  your  knees  and  hands  together,  and  remain  in  that  posi- 
tion; I  will  explain  why  to  you,  anon." 

Again  they  obeyed  him,  their  dirty  faces  growing  pallid 
as  death,  and  their  dirty  hearts  quailing  with  an  undefin- 
able  fear  and  horror  at  this  unprecedented  proceeding. 

James  Charles  Buchmahon  again  returned  to  the  desk, 
now  standing  upright  before  it,  however.  Ver}'  slowly  and 
solemnly  he  next  drew  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  used 
it — and  what  a  quavering,  trumpet  sound  there  then  was! 
— folded  and  rolled  it  up  into  a  round  hardish  lump,  held 
it  in  both  hands  tightly,  bent  his  head  over  it,  and  began 
rul)bing  across  it,  from  side  to  side,  the  base  of  his  very 
broad-backed  and  hooked  nose.  Great  aw^e  fell  upon  his 
subjects,  big  and  little.  The  process  described — which 
they  used  to  call  "  sharpening  his  beak  " — was  one  which, 
by  experience,  they  well  knew  betokened  the  approach  of 
some  terrific  catastrophe;  while  they  w'ere  also  very  well 
aware  that,  during  the  sharpening  of  the  beak,  the  two 
bluish  gray  eyes  were  scowling  round,  from  one  to  another 
of  them — as  before  remarked,  under  their  proper  brows, 
and  over  their  proper  spectacles. 

The  beak  was  sharpened.  The  pocket-handkerchief  was 
unfolded  from  its  sphere-like  form,  shaken,  and  put  up. 
James  Charles  Buchmahon  then  produced  before  himself  a 
horn  snuff-box,  of  his  own  manufacture;  tapped  it  often; 
gravely  took  off  its  lid;  dipped  deep  his  finger  and  thumb 
into  its  pungent  contents;  put  on  its  lid;  returned  it  into 
his  w^aistcoat-pocket,  sniffed  up,  in  a  long,  long-drawn  sniff, 
about  half  of  the  huge  pinch  he  had  abstracted  from  it,  and 
then  he  uttered  three  words  more. 

"  Master  Edmund  Fennell !  " 


m  IRfSfJ    LITERATURE. 

Tho  iiKlividiial  so  siiiiimoucd  left  his  seat,  anrl  stood  be- 
fore the  Ihioiie. 

James  Charles  applied  his  spectacles  close  to  Neddy's 
face,  deliberately  and  dilijienth'  scaniiiug  it,  now  upwards 
and  downwards,  now  from  side  to  side.  AVitli  much 
suavity  he  then  took  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  induced  him 
to  turn  round  and  round,  that  he  miiiiit  critically  inspect 
the  evidences  k'ft  upon  his  dress  of  his  fall  on  the  very 
dusty,  old  oak  floor. 

This  investiijjation  ended,  a  piercing  "Whew I" — which 
continued  while  his  breath  lasted,  followed  it;  the  "  whew  " 
was,  by  the  way,  usual  on  such  occasions  as  the  present, 
an<l  it  used  to  traverse  the  bovs'  heads,  as  if  a  long  needle 
had  been  thrust  into  one  ear,  and  out  through  the  other. 
And  then,  after  finishing  the  pinch  of  snutf,  he  politely  ad- 
dressed Neddj'. 

''Why,  sir,  you  are  (piite  a  buffer — a  perfect  ^Mendoza. 
I  had  no  conception  whatsoever,  sir,  tliat  my  seminary  had 
the  honor  of  containing  such  an  eminent  pugilist.  But, 
sir,  any  young  gentleman,  who  aspires  to  become  a  bully, 
under  this  roof,  must  begin  by  fighting  w  ith  me,  and  more 
than  that — he  must  become  ni}'^  conqueror,  before  I  can 
permit  tlie  ICnglish  Academy  to  be  turned  into  a  bear- 
garden. IJut  we  shall  speak  of  this,  sir,  when  I  shall 
have  discharged  a  more  pressing  dut3\  In  the  meantime, 
Master  Edmund  Fennell,  have  the  kindness  to  kneel  down 
— a  little  apart,  however,  from  those  two  prone  animals," 
])ointing  to  the  two  dirty  fellows,  who  of  course  still  con- 
tinued on  their  hands  and  knees. 

Neddy  could  have  said  something  in  his  own  defense, 
but  he  was  either  too  jjroud  or  too  much  put  out  to  do  so; 
or  jx'rhaps  he  wisely  reserved  himself  for  the  re-investiga- 
tion of  his  case,  which  seemed  to  have  been  promised;  so 
he  knelt  down. 

A  new  fit  of  ci-ying  and  s()1)bing  was  heard  from  the  ohl 
table  in  the  rec(iss,  and  a  beautiful  little  girl,  her  cheeks 
streaming  tears,  ran  forward  to  the  judgment-seat. 

And — "  Sir,  sir,"  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her  little 
hands,  "  do  not  punish  Ned  Fennell — he  doesn't  deserve  it! 
— he  is  a  good  litth;  boy,  and  often  comes  to  see  my  father, 
with  old  priest  Conn(;ll — and  my  father  says  he  is  a  good 
boy — and  so  does  priest  CounelJ ; — and  least  of  all  does  he 


MICHAEL    BANIM.  71 


m 


deserve  your  auger,  for  what  has  happened  this  inorninp,! 
I  saw  aud  heard  it  all,  sir — aud  I  can  make  you  sure  that 
he  has  done  nothing  wrong, — no — but  done  everything 
that  was  right,  sir.  Oh  I  good  Mr.  dames  (diaries  I5uch- 
mahou,  do  not  take  him  into  your  room  and  hurt  him!" 

Neddy  had  not  shed  a  tear  before  this  moment;  after  an 
upward  glance  at  his  little  advocate,  he  now  cried  heartily 
— but  they  were  happy  tears  he  shed.  James  Charles 
Buclimahon  stood  motionless — his  large,  cold  eyes  became 
half-covered  by  their  upper  lids.  lie  smiled,  in  something 
like  the  kindliness  of  human  nature,  and  the  bo^'s  thought, 
as  well  as  they  could  judge  through  his  spectacles,  that 
a  softening  moisture  came  over  them.  At  all  events,  he 
quietly  sat  down,  took  the  little  girl  by  the  hand,  drew 
her  to  his  knee,  and  began  to  question  her  in  a  lov/  voice. 

She  informed  him  that  Neddy's  scuffle,  in  the  first 
instance,  with  the  two  dirty  fellows,  arose  out  of  his 
endeavoring  to  hinder  them  from  approaching  the  girls' 
table  with  their  atrocious  book  of  fortunes.  She  repeated 
the  words  that  passed  between  Nedd}'  and  them;  aud 
how  Neddy  put  the  book  into  the  i)ocket  of  his  jacket,  and 
then  how  they  fell  upon  him,  while  he  would  not  give  up 
his  prize,  but  defended  himself  as  well  as  he  w^as  able. 
James  Charles  listened  attentively,  and  questioned  the 
child  over  again,  and  very  minutely.  When  she  had  said 
all  she  could  say,  he  bent  his  lips  to  her  ear  aud  whispered 
a  few  words.  The  little  thing  clapped  her  hands,  dashed 
aside  with  them  the  tears  and  the  golden  hair  at  once, 
which  were  both  blinding  her,  and  her  lovelv  little  face 
was  one  glowing  smile,  as  she  whispered  in  her  turn — 
"  Oh !  thank  you,  sir."  But  James  Charles  Buchmahon, 
becoming  somewhat  scandalized  at  so  unaffected  a  show  of 
feeling  and  of  nature,  raised  his  forefinger  and  said,  in 
almost  one  of  his  freezing  tones — "  Now  go  back  to  your 
seat,  Miss  M' Near  v." 

Little  Helen,  after  making  her  little  salaam,  obeyed; 
but  not  before  her  smiling  eyes  and  those  of  Neddy  Fen- 
nell,  now  also  smiling,  had  contrived  to  meet. 

A  deathdike  silence  ensued — 

"  It  was  as  if  the  general  pulse 
Of  life  stood  still,  and  nature  made  a  pause, 
An  awful  pause,  prophetic  of  her  end !  " 


72  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

And  during-  the  ''  awful  pause  "  James  Charles  Buchma- 
hon,  half  inoliniDj;-  himself  backwards,  and  holdiujjj  his 
head  ])erfectly  erect,  while  his  hands  hung  clenehed  by  his 
sides,  frowned  downwards  upon  the  two  dirty  fellows,  in, 
as  it  were,  speechless  abhorrence  and  indignation. 

At  length  he  broke  the  j^ause  by  uttering,  in  tones  that 
seemed  to  come  from  the  dei)ths  of  his  laboring  bosom : — 

'■Quadrupeds!  become,  for  a  moment,  bipeds — imitate 
humanity  by  standing  upright." 

With  the  facility  of  dancing  bears  the  quadrupeds  did  as 
they  were  bid. 

"  QuadrujHnls  I  how  many  senses  are  there?  " 

"  Five,  sir  I  "  they  bawled  out  iu  a  breath. 

"  You,  (luadruped,  to  my  right  hand,  name  those  five 
senses." 

"  Feeling,  hearing,  seeing,  tasting,  and  smelling,  sir." 

All  this  seemed  very  wide  of  the  mark,  and  puzzled  the 
dirty  fellows,  and  the  whole  school  besides,  exceedingly. 

"  So  far,  so  good.  Well,  then,  none  of  my  five  senses 
ever  yet  ])erceived,  so  as  to  cause  my  reflective  powers  to 
apprehend,  and  thereby  my  understanding  to  arrive  at  the 
conclusion  that  the  English  Academy  was  founded  and 
instituted  by  me,  for  the  training  up  of  any  of  the  inferior 
aninmls — or  any  of  the  brute  creation,  in  fact.  I  could  not 
have  possiltly  imagined  that,  at  tliis  time  of  my  life,  I  was 
to  degenerate  into  an  instructor  of  beast  brutes — ay,  of  the 
foulest  among  the  foul  brutes — of  foul,  snorting  swune. 
But  you  have  undeceived  me.  And  allow  me  to  ask  you, 
how  has  it  come  to  pass  that  you  have  been  enabled  to 
stand  ujiiight  in  your  sty,  and  present  yourself,  upon  two 
feet,  at  the  tlireshohl  of  tlie  English  Academy?  By  what 
'miglify  nuigic '  has  been  wrought  the  presumptuous  de- 
ception?" 

The  (juadrupeds  did  not  venture  to  answer  the  question. 

"I  say  to  you  Ijoth  lliat,  in  daring  to  stand  erect  on 
your  hinder  legs,  you  have*  attained  the  vei-y  climax  of 
audaiily.  But — "  here  James  (Miarh's  sh)wly  took  out  of 
his  desk  the  cat-o'-nine-tails — "  but  1  will  assert  over  you 
flic  oiitf;ig('(I  dignity  of  Imiiiiiri  nature.  Great  as  may 
have  bfM'ii  tlic  spell  which  enabled  you,  for  a  season,  to 
look  like  liiiman  beings,  I  can  overmaster  that  spell  by  a 
higher  one,  and  force  you  to  resume  your  i>ristine  positions 


MICHAEL   BANIM.  73 

on  the  earth.  Down,  therefore !  Down  again  on  all-fours 
— I  command  your  retransformation ! "  he  waved  the  eat 
slowly  around  liis  head  ;  "  abandon  the  hearing  of  humanity 
and  once  more  move  along  ^^■ith  ])rone  visages  and  snouts, 
delving  into  your  native  mire  and  filth." 

The  swine,  as  James  Charles  now  called  them,  evidently 
did  not  comprehend  this  long  harangue,  and  only  glared 
at  him  with  pallid  visages. 

"  Did  you  not  hear  me,  unclean  brutes?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  they  gas])ed. 

"  Obey,  then  !  " — a  hissing  of  whipcord  came  round  their 
ears  and  then  its  crash  descended  on  their  bare  heads. 
They  shouted,  clapped  their  hands  to  their  smarting  cra- 
niums,  and  jumped  aside.  The  cat  next  applied  her  claws 
to  the  backs  of  those  hands;  and  there  was  a  still  louder 
yell,  and  a  wider  jump  aside. 

"  We  don't  know  what  you  want  us  to  do,  sir !  "  they 
screamed  out. 

But  James  Charles  Buchmahon  soon  made  them  know; 
and  again  they  were  on  their  hands  and  knees. 

"  Grunt  now,  ye  swine — manifest  your  nature  a  little 
further.     Grunt !  "  he  again  elevated  the  cat. 

They  earnestly  assured  him  they  could  not  grunt. 

"  Can't?  I  will  soon  show  all  the  young  gentlemen  here 
that  I  have  not  mistaken  your  nature  or  qualities — come, 
grunt,  I  say !  "  and  the  cat  was  scratching  wherever  she 
could  insert  a  claw. 

"  Ugh,  ugh — ugh,  ugh — oh-ah !  "  they  at  last  grunted 
and  shouted  together. 

"  Did  I  not  judge  aright,  gentlemen  of  the  English 
Academy — hark,  how  plainly  they  can  speak  their  original 
language — walk  forward,  now,  swine — but  still,  still  on 
your  four  legs — do  you  hear?  and  grunt  as  ye  go,  that  all 
human  beings  mav  avoid  vou." 

Round  and  round  the  schoolroom  he  made  them  crawl, 
Avhile,  perforce,  they  still  imitated  the  discordant  sounds 
of  the  animals  they  personified.  In  vain  did  they  attempt 
to  escape  under  desks  or  forms.  With  a  smart  cane,  which 
he  had  now  substituted  for  the  cat,  their  merciless  driver 
soon  hunted  them  out  again  to  the  middle  of  the  floor; 
and  if  they  ceased  their  motion,  for  one  instant,  or  refused 
to  grunt,  down  came  the  cane  on  them. 


74  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

At  last,  ijroAving  tired  of  his  occupation,  James  Charles 
halted,  aiui  allowed  them  to  do  the  same. 

•'  80  lar,  swiue,''  he  said,  "  you  have  been  only  enforced 
to  resume  your  proper  natures,  and  display  3^our  proper 
attributes.  Eeal  punishment  for  your  crimes  you  have  not 
yet  received.  Punishment  first,  for  your  unnameable 
crimes  at  yonder  table,  and  all  your  proceedings  connected 
therewith;  i>unishment,  secondly,  for  your  cowardly  swin- 
ish crime  of  attackinii;  toj2,etliei'  one  little  boy;  one  little 
human  creature,  certainly  inferior  to  you  in  mere  brute 
streniith — and  rending  and  disliguring  the  comely  human 
features  that  Providence  had  blessed  him  with.  I  am  still 
vour  debtor,  I  admit.  But  please  God,  I  shall  not  long  be 
so." 

Only  waiting  to  imbibe  a  fresh  pinch  of  snuff,  as  a  kind 
of  ]ii(inant  stimulus  to  his  already  perfect  good  will  for  the 
task  before  him,  James  Charles  then  belabored  the  two 
dirty  rascals,  from  the  nape  of  the  neck  to  the  termination 
of  the  back-bone — allowing  them,  at  last,  to  go  halting  and 
roaring  to  their  i)laces,  only  because  his  arm  was  no  longer 
able  to  hit  them  hard  enough. 

Again  returning  to  his  desk,  he  again  called  out,  "  Mas- 
ter Edmund  Fennell — "  speaking  still  very  loudly,  though 
the  boy  was  within  a  very  few  inches  of  him.  Neddy 
arose  willingly  enough. 

"  I,  the  more  readily,  and  the  more  easily,  have  been  in- 
duced to  remit  the  punishment  due  to  your  offense,  sir,  of 
repelling  even  by  one  single  ungentlemanlike  blow,  the 
attack  made,  no  matter  how  brutally,  upon  you,  because 
your  late  re-entrance  into  the  English  Academy,  after  a 
long  {iljsence  from  it,  since  your  good  father's  death — " 
Xeddy  burst  out  crying — "  may  have  caused  you  to  forget 
that  I  require  from  the  youth  of  my  establishment,  not  the 
tiiiltulence  of  prize-fighters,  but  the  habits  of  young  g(;n- 
tlemen.  Sir,  there  shall  be  no  boxing-matches  in  the 
ICnglisli  Aca(h'my.  If  there  be  cause  of  (juai'rel,  it  must 
be  im mediately  referred  to  me,  and  justice  shall  be  dealt 
to  both  parties.  Go  now,  Master  Edmund  Fennell,  and 
return  your  n^spectful  thanks  to  Miss  IJelen  M'Neary,  to 
whr)se  generous  interference  you  stand  chielly  indebted  on 
this  important  occasion;  go,  sir — if  indeed  the  young  lady 


MICHAEL    BAMM.  75 

can  bear  to  regard,  even  for  an  instant,  the  present  very 
ungentleniaulike  state  of  your  features." 

Neddy  was  instantly  hastening,  as  fast  as  he  could  walk, 
his  arms  wide  open,  to  obey  this  reasonable  and  pleasant 
reijuest. 

"  Stop,  sir,"  roared  James  Charles  Buchmahon.  This 
unexpected  countermand  sounded  like  a  gun-shot  in  Ned- 
dy's ears,  and  he  certainly  did  stop. 

"  Pray,  sir,  in  what  seminary  did  you  acquire  that  un- 
couth and  l)ruiu-like  method  of  paying  your  respects  to  a 
you]ig  lady?  Retire  some  distance  back,  and  make  an 
obeisance  to  Miss  M'Neary;  thus,  sir;  look  at  me,  sir,  if 
you  please." 

Ned  looked  accordinglv,  and  beheld  James  Charles  Buch- 
mahou  advance  his  finger  and  thumb  to  the  brim  of  his 
cream-colored  beaver,  keeping  his  elbow  turned  out,  and 
his  arm  well  rounded  as  he  did  so;  and  then  he  beheld 
him  solemnly  raise  the  beaver  from  his  bald,  gray  head, 
sway  it  downward  gradually  and  gracefully,  and  bend  his 
body,  until  his  head  came  on  a  line  with  his  hips;  and 
James  Charles,  during  all  this  process,  smiled  and  sim- 
pered his  very  best,  and  at  last  said  in  a  fascinating  tone — 
"  Miss  Helen  M'Neary,  I  return  you  my  most  sincere 
and  respectful  acknowledgments." — "  Now,  sir !  "  And 
James  Charles  again  stood  very  straight,  and  holding  his 
head  very  high,  proud  of  the  perfection  of  his  politeness, 
while  his  e^e  took  a  short  circuit  round  the  schoolroom  to 
notice  the  universal  admiration  which  his  dignified  grace- 
fulness must  have  called  forth.  Neddy  Fennell  contrived 
to  turn  his  face  from  the  observation  of  his  preceptor,  while 
he  performed  the  task  prescribed  to  him;  and  then  gave — 
repeating  every  syllable  he  had  heard — so  correct  an  im- 
itation, in  tone,  manner,  and  action  of  James  Charles  Buch- 
mahon, that  the  row  of  3'oung  ladies  before  him,  and  all 
the  boys  around  him,  were  nearly  suffocated  with  the  at- 
tempt they  made  to  suppress  their  laughter. 

"  That  will  do,  sir:  you  may  now  retire  to  your  place," 
added  James  Charles. 


76  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

LYNCH   LAW   ON   VINEGAR   HILL. 

From  'The  Croppy.' 

Aftor  the  "Teat  mass  of  the  insurgents  abandoned  their 
position  on  Vinegar  Hill  to  advance  upon  Wexford  (which, 
as  we  have  seen,  \vas  3'ielded  to  them  without  a  struggle)  a 
considerable  number,  attached  to  their  cause,  still  re- 
mained on  the  rocky  eminence,  ostensibly  as  a  garrison  to 
guard  the  coufiuered  town  below,  but  really  to  shun  the 
chance  of  open  lighting,  or  else  to  gratify  a  malignant 
nature.  AVe  might  indeed  say  that  all  who  acted  upon 
either  of  the  motives  mentioned  were  influenced  by  both. 
For  it  is  generally  true  that  the  bravest  man  is  the  least 
cruel,  the  coward  most  so.  That  he  who  hesitates  not  to 
expose  himself  in  a  fair  field,  will  yet  hesitate  to  take  life 
treacherously,  coolly,  or  at  a  disproportioned  advantage 
over  his  opponent.  AVhile  the  boastful  craven,  who 
shrinks  from  following  in  his  footsteps,  glories  to  shoAV  a 
common  zeal  in  the  same  cause  by  imbruing  his  hands  in 
the  blood  of  the  already  conquered,  of  the  Aveak,  or  of  the 
defenseless. 

Apart  from  the  new  recruits  that  continued  to  come  in 
to  the  popular  place  of  rendezvous,  the  majority  of  the  exe- 
cutioners and  butchers  of  Vinegar  Hill  were,  according  to 
the  accounts  of  living  chroniclers  on  both  sides  of  the  ques- 
tion,  individuals  of  this  last  kind.  Amongst  them,  indeed, 
were  some  who,  if  peculiar  onti-ages  had  not  temporarily 
roused  their  revenge  to  a  maddening  thirst  for  blood,  would 
never  have  brutalized  themselves  and  shamed  the  nature 
they  bore  by  participation  in  such  deeds  as  were  done  upon 
the  breezy  summit  of  that  fatal  hill.  But  these  were  out- 
numbered by  their  brethren  of  a  dilferent  character;  men, 
demons  rather,  to  be  found  in  all  communities,  whose 
natnral  disi)osition  was  murderous,  and  who,  but  for  the 
coward  fear  of  retributive  justice,  wonld  spill  blood  upon 
tlic  \('vy  hearthstone  of  household  peace.  Alas  for  our 
boasted  nature  when  such  beings  share  it! 

At  the  head  of  the  main  force  all  the  principal  or  more 
resjK-ctablc  leaders  had  necessarily  taken  their  departure 
from  ''  the  camp."  The  so-called  leadc^rs  who  remained  in 
nominal   command   over   th(;   sknlking  mob   we   have  de- 


MICHAEL   BANIM.  77 

scribed  were  themselves  scarce  raised  above  the  scum  and 
dregs  who,  for  a  recognized  simihirity  of  character  rather 
than  for  any  merit,  chose  them  as  their  "  capt'ns."  And 
by  these  men  were  conducted  or  despatched,  during  the 
t>revious  night  and  day,  different  bands  in  different  direc- 
tions, to  seize  on  provisions,  to  drive  in  cattle  and  sheep, 
and  to  lead  captive  to  the  rendezvous  all  whom  they  might 
deem  enemies  to  the  cause  of  what  was  now  pompously 
styled — poor,  brave  little  Peter  Eooney's  heart  jumping  at 
the  sound — "  The  Wexford  Army  of  Liberty." 

Accordingly  sheep,  cows,  oxen,  and  Orangemen,  or  sup- 
posed Orangemen,  had,  previous  to  Sir  William  Judkin's 
approach  to  the  hill,  been  abundantly  provided  for  the 
satiety  of  the  only  two  cravings  felt  by  their  ferocious 
captors.  Such  of  the  former  as  could  not  immediately  be 
devoured  were  suffered  to  ramble  among  the  rocks  and 
patches  of  parched  grass  on  the  side  of  the  eminence  until 
hunger  again  called  for  a  meal ;  such  of  the  latter  as,  from 
whim  or  fatigue,  were  not  summarily  despatched,  were 
thrust  into  a  prison — a  singular  one — until  revenge  or 
murder  again  roared  for  its  victims. 

On  the  summit  of  the  height  stood  a  roofless,  round 
building,  originally  intended  for  a  windmill  but  never 
perfected,  because,  perhaps,  in  the  middle  of  the  projector's 
work  it  became  tardily  evident  to  him  that  the  river  at  his 
feet  supplied  a  better  impetus  for  grinding  corn  than  was 
to  be  gained  from  the  fitful  l)reeze  after  mounting  up  the 
side  of  the  steep  hill.  In  Ireland  such  buildings  rarely 
occur,  inasmuch  as  in  almost  every  district  the  river  or  the 
rill  invites  the  erection  of  the  more  diligent  water-wheel. 
Indeed  we  have  heard  that  the  half-finished  pile  in  question 
was  the  first  thought  of  an  English  settler,  accustomed  to 
such  structures  in  his  own  country,  and  subsequently  aban- 
doned for  the  reasons  already  mentioned. 

But  at  the  time  of  our  story  this  roofless  round  tower, 
about  seven  paces  in  diameter  and  perhaps  twenty-five  feet 
in  height,  was  appropriated  to  a  use  very  different  from 
that  for  which  it  had  been  planned.  It  served,  in  fact,  as  a 
temporary  prison  for  the  unfortunate  persons  captured  by 
the  marauding  garrison  of  Vinegar  Hill.  Many  were  the 
victims  thrust  through  its  narrow  doorway  to  meet  a 
horrid  death  on  the  pikes  of  the  savages  abroad. 


7S  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Never  before  or  since,  in  Ireland,  did  the  summer  sun 
dart  tiereer  rays  than,  as  if  in  sympathy  with  the  passions 
and  acts  it  witnessed,  dnriiiu-  the  hot  strni^gle  of  civil  war 
in  the  year  1798.  As  Sir  William  Judkin  spurred  his  jaded 
smokinir  horse  towards  the  eminence  beast  and  rider  were 
faint  with  heat  and  toil. 

His  ln>rse,  although  stretching  every  muscle  at  the  goad 
of  his  bloody  spur,  could  but  creep  with  distended  nostril 
and  bursting  eye  against  the  steep  and  rock-encumbered 
acclivity.  lin])atieut  of  the  animal's  tardy  progress,  Sir 
^^'illiam  siu-nig,  with  an  imprecation,  from  his  back,  and 
pushed  ujfward;  drenclied  indeed  in  ])erspiration  at  every 
step,  yet  with  a  constancy  and  a  nerve  scarce  to  be  ac- 
counted for,  unless  that  his  heated  brain  gave  him  such 
stimulus  as  imparts  incredible  strength  to  the  maniac.  He 
gained  a  view  of  the  old  windmill  tower.  T'poii  its  top  was 
hoisicil  a  rude  tUig  of  sun-faded  green,  on  which,  in  clumsy 
white  letters,  had  been  inscribed  "  Liberty  or  Death."  Had 
the  breeze  been  brisk  enough  to  float  the  banner  to  its  full 
e.xtent  such  wci-e  the  v.ords  that  would  have  met  the  eye. 
I'ut  the  summer  breeze  had  fled  the  summit  of  Vinegar 
Hill,  leaving  that  baleful  flag  to  droop  over  the  scene  be- 
neath it,  until  within  its  heavy  folds  the  word  "Liberty" 
became  hidden,  and  "  Death  "  alone  was  visible. 

His  banner  it  might  indeed  well  aj)pear  to  be — drooping, 
in  ajtpropriate  listlessness,  as  it  flaunted  the  name  of  the 
destroyer  above  the  havoc  he  had  made.  For,  just  below 
llic  liase  of  the  tower  the  rocks  and  t!ie  l)urned  grass  were 
reildened,  and  lifeh'ss  bodies,  frightfully  gashed,  lay  here 
and  there,  some  fully  to  be  seen,  others  partly  concealed 
by  the  stunted  furze  and  shrubs. 

Sir  William  still  toiled  upward.  In  different  places 
along  the  hill-side,  and  even  at  some  distance  beyond  its 
foot,  were  gi'()U])S  of  men,  women,  and  childi'CMi, — some  re- 
jiosing  after  fatigue,  others  seated  round  blazing  fires  of 
w«>od  and  furze.  The  slaughtered  carcasses  of  sheep  and 
cows  often  lay  in  close  neighborhood  with  the  mortal  re- 
mains of  tlieir  enemies.  And  the  houseless  Croppy,  when 
nec<'ssit;ile(j  by  hunger,  hacked  a  j)iece  fi-oiTi  th<'  plundered 
animal  he  had  killed,  held  it  on  his  ]>ike-liead  before  the 
blaze,  and  when  thus  inartificially  cooked,  either  stretched 
Lis  rude  si»it,  still  holding  the  morsel  on  its  point,  to  some 


MICHAEL    BANIM.  79 

membor  of  his  family,  or  vorar-ionsly  flovourod  it  himself. 
Eveu  here,  aiiioiii!;st  these  houseless  and  friendless  people — 
none,  we  would  add,  of  the  ferocious  garrison  of  the  wind- 
mill prison,  but  rather  some  poor  wanderers  from  a  burned 
cabin,  recently  come  in — even  amonj>st  these,  surrounded 
by  sights  of  horror,  and  stifling  their  hunger  in  this  almost 
savage  manner,  national  characteristics  wei-e  not  beaten 
down.  The  laugh  was  frequent  as  the  cook  made  some 
droll  remark  upon  the  novelty  of  his  occupation  or  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  fare,  the  words  deriving  half  their  import 
from  his  tone  and  manner  as  he  perhaps  said — "  Well !  it 's 
nate  mate,  considerin'  Orange  sheep;" — or  "By  gonnies! 
Orange  is  the  Croppy's  friend,  an'  who  '11  deny  it?  " — hold- 
ing the  broiled  flesh  high  on  his  pike : — "  Sure  it 's  no  other 
than  a  friend  'ud  feed  fat  sheep  for  a  bod^^; — open  your 
mouths  an'  shet  your  eyes.  Now  boys  an'  girls — the  big- 
gest mouth  'ill  have  this  undher  the  teeth,  I  'm  thinkin'." 
And  they  gaped  and  laughed  loud,  as,  with  a  grave  face, 
the  examiner  went  round  to  decide  on  the  comparative 
width  of  each  yawning  cavern. 

There  were  carousing  groups  too,  sending  illicit  whisky 
or  other  more  legal  liquor  from  hand  to  hand;  and  the 
beverage  did  not  fail  of  its  enlivening  effect.  x4.nd  leaders 
appeared,  with  green  ribbons  or  perhaps  a  military  sash 
around  their  persons,  or  epaulettes  on  their  shoulders,  torn 
from  officers  they  had  slain.  These  were  busy  inspecting 
different  bands  of  insurgents  as  they  practiced  their  pike 
exercise,  now  driving  forward  the  weapon  at  a  given  ob- 
ject, now  darting  it  over  their  shoulders  as  if  to  meet  a  foe 
from  behind,  now  adroitl}^  grasping  it  at  either  end  with 
both  hands,  and  bringing  into  play  the  elastic  staff,  as  with 
great  dexterity  they  whirled  it  round  their  persons  to  keep 
off  an  attack  in  front.  Through  all  arose  loud  vocifera- 
tions,  each  directing  the  other,  according  as  he  arrived,  or 
fancied  he  had  arrived,  at  greater  proficiency  than  his 
neighbor. 

Sir  William's  attention  was  at  length  riveted  upon  the 
particular  throng  who,  variously  occupied,  surrounded  the 
narrow  entrance  to  the  old  tower.  With  furious  action 
and  accents  the  clamorous  crowd  here  hustled  together, 
and  a  first  glance  told  that  their  present  occupation 
brought  into  energy  all  the  ferociousness  of  their  nature. 


so  fRTSin    LITERATURE. 

Some  of  them  who  were  on  horseback  waved  tlieir  arms, 
and  endeavored  to  raise  their  voices  over  the  din  of  those 
around,  who,  however,  vociferated  too  ardently  to  listen  to 
their  words.  While  all  looked  on  at  the  slaughter  com- 
mitted by  a  line  of  pikemen  drawn  up  before  the  tower, 
whose  weapons  were  but  freed  from  one  victim  to  be 
plunged  into  another,  it  was  not  merely  a  shout  of  triumph 
but  the  more  deadly  yell  of  glutted  vengeance  or  malignity, 
whith,  drowning  the  cry  of  agony  that  preceded  it,  burst 
with  little  intermission  from  all. 

Two  sentinels  armed  with  muskets  guarded  the  low  and 
narrow  entrances  to  the  temporary  prison,  and  grimly  did 
tiiey  scowl  on  the  crowded  captives  pent  up  within  its 
walls.  Another  man,  gaunt  and  robust  in  stature,  having  a 
horseman's  sword  buckled  awkwardly  at  his  hip,  a  green 
ribbon  tied  round  his  foxy  felt  hat,  the  crimson  sash  of  a 
slain  militia  officer  knotted  round  his  loins,  two  large  pis- 
tols thrust  into  it,  and  a  formidable  pike  in  his  hand, 
rushed  from  time  to  time  into  the  tower,  dragged  forth 
some  poor  victiui,  and  j)ut  him  to  a  short  examination. 
Then,  unless  something  were  urged  in  favor  of  the  destined 
sufferer  sufficient  to  snatch  him  from  the  frightful  fate 
nund)ers  had  already  met,  he  flung  him  to  his  executioners. 
And  this  man,  so  furious,  so  savage,  and  so  remorseless, 
was  Shawn-a-(iow. 

Arnie(l  also  witli  a  musket,  and  stationed  between  the 
line  of  pikemen  and  the  door  of  the  tower  in  order  that  he 
might  be  the  first  agent  of  vengeance,  stood  the  ill-favored 
scoundi-el  we  have  mentioned  in  a  former  chapter — the 
iiiuiderous  Murtoch  Kane,  late  a  "  stable-bo}^  "  at  the  inn 
of  Eniiiscortiiy.  As  he  leveled  at  his  victim,  proud  of  the 
jHivilege  of  anticipating  his  brother-executioners,  the  ruf- 
fian's brow  ever  curled  into  the  murderer's  scowl. 

The  hasty  interrogatories  proposed  to  each  cringing  cap- 
tive by  Shawn-a-Gow  midway  between  the  tower  and  the 
pikemen  had  exclusive  reference  to  the  religious  creed  of 
ih(;  party.  The  acknowledgment  of  Protestantism,  deemed 
synonymous  with  Orangeism,  at  once  proclaimed,  or  rather 
was  assumed  as  proclaiming,  a  deadly  enemy,  meriting  in- 
stant vengeance.  Yet  in  this  the  rabble  insurgents  of  Vine- 
gar rnil  artod  with  a  curious  inconsistency.  Many  Protes- 
tants iifbl  fomraand  in  tlje  main  force  of  which  they  called 


MICHAEL    BANIM.  81 

themselves  adherents;  nay,  the  individual  selected  by  unan- 
imous choice  as  "  commander-in-chief  "  was  of  the  estab- 
lished religion  of  the  state.  But  why  pause  to  point  out 
any  departure  from  principle  in  the  persons  of  such  men  as 
are  before  us?  Were  their  deeds  to  be  justly  visited  on  the 
more  courageous  as  well  as  more  numerous  bodies  of  the 
insurgents, "we  might  indeed  occupy  ourselves  with  the 
(|uestiou. 

Panting  and  nearly  fainting,  Sir  William  Judkin  gained 
the  tower,  and  ere  he  could  address  a  question  to  those 
around,  stood  still  to  recover  his  breath.  Two  prisoners 
were  dragged  forth  by  the  relentless  Shawn-a-Gow. 

"  Are  you  a  Christian?  "  he  demanded,  glaring  into  the 
face  of  one  trembling  wretch  as  he  grasped  him  by  the 
collar. 

"•  I  am.  Jack  Delouchery,"  he  was  answered. 

"  Are  you  a  right  Christian?  " 

"  I  am  a  Protestant." 

"  Ay — the  Orange." 

"  No,  not  an  Orangeman." 

"  Now,  hould  silence,  you  dog  I  every  mother's  son  o'  ye 
is  Orange  to  the  backbone.  Is  there  any  one  here  to  say  a 
word  for  this  Orangeman?  " 

There  was  an  instant's  silence,  during  which  the  pale 
terror-stricken  man  gazed  beseechingly  upon  every  dark 
and  ominous  face  around  him.  But  the  cry  "  Pay  him  his 
reckonin' "  soon  sealed  the  victim's  doom.  With  a  fierce 
bellow,  the  words,  "  Ay,  we  '11  weed  the  land  o'  ye — we  '11 
have  only  one  way ;  we  '11  do  to  every  murtherer  o'  ye  what 
ye  'd  do  to  us!  " — was  the  furious  sentence  of  the  smith  as 
he  pitched  him  forward.  Murtoch  Kane  shot,  and  a  dozen 
pikes  did  the  rest. 

The  smith  seized  the  second  man.  One  of  the  lookers-on 
started  forward,  claimed  him  as  a  friend,  and  told  some 
true  or  feigned  story  of  his  interference  previous  to  the 
insurrection  between  Orange  outrage  and  its  victims.  He 
was  flung  to  his  patron  by  Shawn-a-Gow  with  the  careless- 
ness of  one  who  presided  over  life  and  death ;  the  same  sav- 
age action  tossing  the  all  but  dead  man  into  life  which  had 
hurled  the  previous  sufferer  into  eternity'. 

Sir  William  Judkin,  as  the  smith  again  strode  to  the 
door  of  the  prison,  came  forward,  with  the  question  ready 
6 


82  INL'^H    LITERATURE. 

to  burst  from  his  chapped  aud  parched  lips,  when  the  man 
Avhdse  name  he  woiihl  liave  mentioned,  already  in  the  gripe 
of  Shawn,  was  drau^ed  forth  into  view. 

Tile  haronet  stei)])ed  back,  his  manner  changed  from  its 
fiery  imju'tuosity.  He  now  felt  no  impulse  to  bound  upon 
a  ])rev  »'S(ai)irig  from  his  hands.  In  the  Gow's  iron  grasp, 
anil  in  the  midst  of  a  concourse  of  sworn  enemies,  the  de- 
voted Talbot  stood  closely  secured.  Either  to  indulge  the 
new  sensation  of  revenge  at  last  gratified,  or  compose  him- 
self to  a  purpose  that  required  system  in  its  execution,  Sir 
^Villiam  stood  motionless,  darting  from  beneath  his  black 
brows  arrowy  ghriues  upon  his  rival,  his  breathing,  which 
recently  liad  been  tlie  pant  of  anxiety,  altered  into  the  long- 
drawn  respiration  of  resolve. 

Captain  Talbot  appeared  despoiled  of  his  military  jacket, 
his  helmet,  his  sash,  and  all  the  other  tempting  appendages 
of  warlike  uniform,  wliich  long  ago  had  been  distributed 
amongst  the  rabble  commanders  of  "  the  camp."  No  man 
can  naturally  meet  death  with  a  smile:  it  is  affectation 
even  in  the  hero  that  assumes  it;  it  is  bravado  on  other  lips 
to  hide  a  quailing  heart.  And  Captain  Talbot,  whatever 
might  have  been  the  strength  and  the  secrets  of  his  heart, 
as  he  instinctively  shrank  from  the  rude  arm  of  Shawn-a- 
Crow,  was  pale  and  trembling,  aud  his  glance  was  that  of 
dread. 

Iloju'less  of  mercy,  he  spoke  no  word,  used  no  remon- 
strance; it  was  unavailing.  Before  him  bristled  the  red 
]>ikes  of  his  ruthless  executioners;  behind  him  stood  Mur- 
toch  Kane,  cocking  his  musket.  The  gras])  that  dragged 
him  along  told  at  once  the  determination  and  the  strength 
of  the  infui-iated  giant. 

"  There 's  a  dozen  o'  ve,  I'm  sure!"  sneered  Shawn: 
"  I  '11  stand  out  to  si)ake  for  Sir  Thomas  Hartley's  hang- 
man." The  tone  of  bitter,  savage  mockery  in  which  he 
sj)oke  grated  at  Talbot's  ear,  as,  first  grinning  into  his 
prisoner's  face,  he  glanced  in  fierce  triumph  over  the 
crowd. 

"A  good  pitch  to  him,  Capt'n  Delouchery,"  cried  one  of 
the  execiilioiiers;  "don't  keep  us  waitin';  we're  dhry  and 
hnngi-v  foi-  him.''  A  general  muiiiiur  of  execi-ation  fol- 
lowed, and  an  impatient  shout  at  the  delay  of  vengeance. 

"  My  undeserved  death  will  be  avenged,  murderers  as 


MICHAEL    BAXIM.  83 

you  are,"  cried  the  pallid  Captaiu  Talbot,  in  accents  dis- 
tinct tlirouj^h  desperation. 

Shawu-a-(io\v  held  him  at  arm's-length,  and  with  an  ex- 
pression of  mixed  ferocity  and  anmzement  again  stared 
into  his  face. 

"An'  you're  callin'  us  murtherers,  are  you?"  he  said, 
after  a  moment's  pause — "  I>oys,  bould  Croppy  boys,  d'  ye 
hear  him?  Tell  me,  ar'n't  you  the  man  that  stood  by  the 
gallows'  foot,  wid  the  candle  in  3'our  hand,  waitin'  till  the 
last  gasp  was  sent  out  o'  the  lij»s  o'  him  who  often  opened 
his  door  to  you,  and  often  sat  atin'  and  dhriukin'  wid  you, 
under  his  own  roof?    Ar'n't  you,  Talbot,  that  man?  " 

No  answer  came  from  the  accused. 

"  You  don't  say  No  to  me.  Ay !  becase  you  can't !  Yet 
you  call  murtherers  on  us.  Are  you  here,  Pat  Murphy?  " 
he  roared. 

"  I  'm  here,"  replied  the  man  who  had  before  raised  the 
first  cry  for  instant  yengeance. 

"  Do  3'ou  know  anything  good  this  caller  of  names  done 
to  you?  " 

"  It  was  him  an'  his  yeomen  hung  the  only  born  l)rother 
o'  me." 

"D'ye  hear  that,  you,  murtherer?  D'ye  hear  that,  an' 
haye  you  the  bouldness  in  you  to  spake  to  us? — I  '11  tell 
you,  you  Orange  sl-iJjhcaJi!  we  '11  keep  you  up  for  the  last. 
A3',  by  the  sowl  o'  my  son  !  we  '11  keep  you  for  the  yery  last, 
till  you  're  half  dead  wid  the  fear,  an'  till  we  '11  haye  time 
to  pay  you  in  the  way  I  'd  glory  to  see,  or — Come  here, 
Murphy!  Come  out  here — stand  close — you  ought  to  be 
first.  Take  your  time  wid  him  I  Keep  him  feeling  it  as 
long  as  a  poor  Croppy  'ud  feel  the  rope,  when  they  let  him 
down  only  to  pull  him  up  again. 

The  man  stepped  forward  as  he  was  ordered.  Shawn-a- 
Gow  swung  the  struggling  Captain  Talbot  around.  With 
his  instinctiye  ayoidance  of  a  terrible  death  the  prisoner 
grasped  with  the  disengaged  hand  the  brawny  arm  that 
held  him,  and,  being  a  young  man  of  strength,  clung  to  it 
in  desperation — in  desperation  without  hope.  But  al- 
though he  was  3'oung  and  strong  and  desperate,  he  opposed 
the  sinew  of  a  Hercules.  The  smith,  with  his  single  arm, 
dashed  him  backwards  and  forwards,  until  maddened  by 
Talbot's  continued  clinging  and  his  agile  recoyery  of  his 


84  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

le.c;s,  at  every  toss  Sliawu's  mouth  foamed.  He  seized  in 
Ills  liitliei'to  iDaotive  hand  the  grasping  arms  of  the  strug- 
gh-r,  and  tore  them  from  their  hold.  "  Now,  Murphy !  "  he 
l)elhn\-ed,  as  ^lurpliy  couched  his  pike,  and  pushed  down 
his  hat  and  knit  his  brows  to  darkness.  Shawn-a-CiOw's 
right  side  was  turned  to  the  executioner,  his  black  distorted 
face  to  the  weapon  upon  which  he  should  cast  his  victim ; 
he  stood  tirndy  on  his  divided  legs,  in  the  attitude  that 
enabltnl  him  to  exert  all  liis  strength  in  the  toss  he  contem- 
jdatt'd; — wlicn  Sir  William  Judkin,  hitherto  held  back  by 
a  wish  perhaps  to  allow  all  vicissitudes  of  suffering  to  visit 
his  detested  rival,  sternly  stepped  between  the  writhing- 
man  and  his  fate. 

"  Stoj),  Delouchery !  "  he  said,  in  a  deep  impressive  voice. 
Before  the  smith  could  express  his  astonishment  or  rage  at 
the  interrui)tion, — ''  Stop,''  he  said  again,  in  higher  ac- 
cents; "  this  villain  " — scowling  as  he  used  the  term  of  con- 
tempt— "  this  villain  must  be  given  into  my  hands — /  must 
kill  him !  " — he  hissed  in  a  whisper  close  at  Shawn's  ear — 
''  /  must  kill  him  myself!  " 

"  Whv  so?  "  growled  the  smith. 

"  lie  is  the  murderer  of  my  father-in-law,  Sir  Thomas 
Hartley." 

"  People  here  has  just  as  good  a  right  to  him,"  answered 
Shawu-a-Gow  surlily,  much  vexed  at  the  interruption  he 
had  ex])erienced,  and  scarce  able  to  stay  his  hand  from  its 
impulse.  "  Here  's  Pat  Murphy.  He  hung  the  only  born 
brother  of  him:  Murphj'  must  have  a  pike  through  Talbot. 
/  had  one  through  Whaley  I  " 

"  And  lie  shall.  But,  Delouchery,  listen  farther.  Talbot 
has  forced  off  my  wife — has  her  concealed  from  me — Sir 
Thomas  Hartley's  daughter.  After  murdering  the  father 
he  would  destroy  the  child — and  that  child  my  wife.  Be- 
fore he  dies  I  must  force  him  to  confess  where  she  is  to  be 
found.    And  then,  Murphy  and  I  for  it  between  us." 

"  I  '11  soon  force  out  of  him,  for  you,  where  the  wife  is." 
"  No,  Delouchery,  he  Avill  tell  nothing  here." 
"  An'  where  will  you  bring  him  to  make  him  tell?  " 
"  Only  to  yonder  fiehl  at  tiie  bottom  of  the  hill." 
Tiie  smith  paused,  and  seemed  resolving  the  proposition 
in  all  its  points.     He  cast  his  eyes  around.     "  Molloney, 


MICHAEL    BANIM.  85 

come  here — Farrell,  come  here,"  he  said.     Two  men  ad- 
vanced from  the  interior  of  the  prison. 

"  Where  's  the  rope  that  tied  the  Orangemen  that  come 
into  the  camp  from  Buncdody?  " 

"  It 's  to  the  good  for  another  job,  capt'n." 
Without  fnrtlier  explanation  he  forced  Captain  Talbot 
backward  into  the  prison,  reapi)eared  with  him,  his  hands 
tied  behind  his  back,  and  gave  the  end  of  the  ro])e  into  Sir 
William  Judkin's  hand.  Then  he  called  jNlnrphy  aside, 
and,  in  a  whisper  of  few  words,  directed  him  to  accompany 
"  Curnel  Judkin,"  and  give  him  a  helping  hand,  or  watch 
him  close,  as  the  case  might  seem  to  demand.  Then  turn- 
ing to  the  baronet,  "  There  he  's  for  you  now :  have  a  care 
an'  do  the  business  well,"  he  said. 


THE   STOLEN   SHEEP. 


AN  IRISH  SKETCH. 


The  faults  of  the  lower  orders  of  the  Irish  are  sufficiently 
well  known;  perhaps  their  virtues  have  not  been  propor- 
tionately observed  or  recorded  for  observation.  At  all 
events,  it  is  but  justice  to  them,  and  it  cannot  conflict  with 
any  established  policy,  or  do  any  one  harm  to  exhibit  them 
in  a  favorable  light  to  their  British  fellow-subjects,  as  often 
as  strict  truth  will  permit.  In  this  view  the  following 
story  is  written — the  following  facts,  indeed ;  for  we  have  a 
newspaper  report  before  us,  which  shall  be  very  slightly 
departed  from  while  we  make  our  copy  of  it. 

The  Irish  plague,  called  typhus  fever,  raged  in  its  ter- 
rors. In  almost  every  third  cabin  there  was  a  corpse  daily. 
In  every  one,  without  an  exception,  there  was  what  had 
made  the  corpse — hunger.  It  need  not  be  added  that  there 
was  poverty  too.  The  poor  could  not  bury  their  dead. 
From  mixed  motives  of  self-protection,  terror,  and  benevo- 
lence, those  in  easier  circumstances  exerted  themselves  to 
administer  relief,  in  different  ways.  Money  was  subscribed 
(then  came  England's  munificeut  donation — God  prosper 
her  for  it!)   wholesome  food,  or  food  as  wholesome  as  a 


S()  Jl^JiSll    LITERATURE. 

hiu\  Reason  pormitted,  was  i)rovi(lo(l ;  and  men  of  rospecta- 
Inlity,  bracinij:  thoir  niiiuls  to  avert  tlie  daniici-  that  threat- 
(MU'd  tlicniselves  by  boldly  facin*;-  it,  entered  the  infected 
house,  where  death  reigned  almost  alone,  and  took  meas- 
ures to  eleanse  and  i)ui*ify  the  close-cribbed  air  and  the 
rou.i!;h  bare  walls.  Before  proceediuii'  to  our  story,  let  us 
be  i)ermitted  to  mention  some  i>eneral  marks  of  Irish  vir- 
tue, which,  under  those  circumstances,  we  personally  no- 
ticiMl.  In  ])overty,  in  abject  misei'y,  and  at  a  short  and 
fearful  notice,  the  ])oor  nuni  died  like  a  Christian.  He  i»ave 
vent  to  none  of  the  poor  man's  complaints  or  invectives 
against  the  rich  nuui  who  had  nei^iected  him,  or  who  he 
miiiht  have  supposed  had  done  so  till  it  was  too  late.  Ex- 
cei)t  for  a  lilance — and,  doubtless,  a  little  inward  panjj; 
while  he  lilanced — at  the  starvinji;  and  perhaps  infected 
wife,  or  cliild,  or  old  parent  as  helpless  as  the  child — he 
blessed  God  and  died.  The  appearance  of  a  comforter  at 
his  wretched  bedside,  even  when  he  knew  comfort  to  be  use- 
less, made  his  heart  i^rateful  and  his  spasmed  lips  eloquent 
in  thanks.  In  cases  of  in(h*scribable  misery — some  mem- 
bers of  his  family  lyini;-  lifeless  before  his  eyes,  or  else  some 
dyins — stretched  upon  damp  and  unclean  straw  on  an 
earthen  floor,  without  cordial  for  his  lips,  or  potatoes  to 
point  out  to  a  crying  infant — often  we  have  heard  him 
whisper  (o  himself  (and  to  another  who  heard  him)  :  "  The 
Lord  giveth,  and  the  Lord  taketh  away,  blessed  be  the  name 
of  the  Lord."  Such  men  need  not  always  make  bad  neigh- 
bors. 

In  the  early  progress  of  the  fevei-,  before  the  more  af- 
fluent roused  themselves  to  avert  its  career,  let  us  cross 
tin;  threshold  of  an  individual  peasant.  Ilis  young  wife 
lies  dead;  his  second  child  is  dying  at  her  side;  he  has  just 
sunk  into  the  corner  himself,  under  the  first  stun  of  disease, 
long  resisted.  The  only  persons  of  his  family  who  have 
escai)ed  contagion,  and  are  likely  to  escape  it,  are  his  old 
f;iflier,  who  sits  weej)ing  feebly  upon  the  hob,  and  his  first- 
born, a  boy  of  thi*ee  or  four  years,  who,  standing  between 
the  old  man's  knees,  cries  also  for  food. 

AVe  visit  the  young  peasant's  abode  some  time  after.  He 
has  not  suidc  under  "  the  sickness."  He  is  fast  regaining 
his  sti-ength,  even  without  ])ro])er  nourishment;  he  can 
fTffp  oTif-of-doors,  and  sit  in  the  sun.     Uut  in  the  expres- 


MICHAEL    JiAyiM.  87 

sion  of  his  sallow  and  emaciated  face  there  is  no  joy  for 
his  escape  from  (he  ,i;rave,  as  he  sits  there  alone  silent  and 
brooding.  His  father  and  his  surviving'  child  are  still  hnn- 
j>ry — more  hungry,  indeed,  and  more  helpless  than  ever; 
for  the  neighbors  who  had  relieved  the  family  with  a  potato 
and  a  mug  of  sour  milk  are  now  stricken  down  themselves, 
and  want  assistance  to  a  much  greater  extent  than  they 
can  give  it. 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Evans  was  in  the  place,"  cogitated  Michaul 
Carroll,  ''  a  body  could  spake  forn'ent  him,  and  not  spake 
for  notliin',  for  all  that  he's  an  Englishman;  and  I  don't 
like  the  thoughts  o'  goin'  up  to  the  house  to  the  steward's 
face;  it  wouldn't  turn  kind  to  a  bodj^  May  be  he  'd  soon 
come  home  to  us,  the  masther  himself." 

Another  fortnight  elapsed.  MichauFs  hope  proved  vain. 
Mr.  Evans  was  still  in  London;  though  a  regular  resident 
on  a  small  Irish  estate,  since  it  had  come  into  his  posses- 
sion, business  unfortunately — and  he  would  have  said  so 
himself — now  kept  him  an  unusually  long  time  absent. 
Thus  disappointed,  Michaul  overcame  his  repugnance  to 
appear  before  the  "  hard  "  steward.  He  only  asked  for 
work,  however.  There  was  none  to  be  had.  He  turned 
his  slow  and  still  feeble  feet  into  the  adjacent  town.  It 
was  market-day,  and  he  took  up  his  place  among  a  crowd 
of  other  claimants  for  agricultural  employment,  shoulder- 
ing a  spade,  as  did  each  of  his  companions.  ^lany  farmers 
came  to  the  well  known  "  stannin,"  and  hired  men  at  his 
right  and  at  his  left,  but  no  one  addressed  Michaul.  Once 
or  twice,  indeed,  touched  perhaps  by  his  sidelong  looks  of 
beseeching  misery,  a  farmer  stopped  a  moment  before  him, 
and  glanced  over  his  figure;  but  his  worn  and  almost  shak- 
ing limbs  giving  little  promise  of  present  vigor  in  the  work- 
ing field,  worldlj'  prudence  soon  conquered  the  humane 
feeling  which  started  up  towards  him  in  the  nmn's  heart, 
and,  with  a  choking  in  his  throat,  poor  Michaul  saw  the 
arbiter  of  his  fate  pass  on. 

He  walked  homeward  without  having  broken  his  fast 
that  day.  "Bud,  miisJia/  what's  the  harm  o'  that?"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  only  here  's  the  ould  father,  an'  her  pet 
boy,  the  weenock,^  without  a  pyatee  either.  Well,  asthore,^ 
if  they  can't  have  the  pyatees,  they  must  have  betther  food, 

*  Miisha.  expression  of  surprise.        ~  Weenocli.  a  weakling. 
^  Asthuve,  ray  treasure. 


SS  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

that 's  all ;  ay — "  ho  niiittered,  clenching-  his  hands,  at 
his  side,  and  imprecating  fearfully  in  Irish — "  an'  so  they 
nuist." 

He  left  his  house  again,  and  walked  a  good  way  to  beg 
a  few  potatoes.  He  did  not  come  back  quite  empty-handed. 
His  fatlier  and  his  child  had  a  meal.  He  ate  but  a  few 
himsidf,  and  when  he  was  about  to  lie  down  in  his  corner 
for  tlie  night  lie  said  to  the  old  man,  across  the  room, 
'*  Don't  be  a  crying  to-night,  father,  you  and  the  child 
there ;  but  sleep  well,  and  ye  '11  have  the  good  break'ast 
afore  ye  in  the  mornin'.  "  "  The  good  break'ast,  ma  hoa- 
chal/^  a  then,  an'  where '11  id  come  from?"  "A  body 
promised  it  to  me,  father."  "  Avich!  Michaul,  an'  sure  it 's 
fun  you  're  makin'  of  us,  now,  at  any  rate;  but  the  good- 
night, a  chorra,'  an'  my  blessin'  on  your  head,  Micliaul; 
an'  if  we  keep  trust  in  the  good  God,  an'  ax  His  blessin', 
too,  mornin'  an'  evening',  gettin'  up  an  lyin'  down,  He'll 
be  a  friend  to  us  at  last ;  that  was  always  an'  ever  my  word 
to  you,  poor  boy,  since  you  was  at  the  years  o'  your 
wceuock,  now  fast  asleep  at  my  side;  and  it's  my  word 
to  you  now,  ma  houchal,  an'  you  won't  forget  id;  an' 
there  's  one  sayin'  the  same  to  you,  out  o'  heaven,  this  night 
— herself,  an'  her  little  angel  in  glory  by  the  hand, 
3Iicl);ni],  a  voiirneen/' 

Having  tlius  spoken  in  the  fervent  and  rather  exagger- 
ated, though  every-day,  words  of  pious  allusion  of  the  Irish 
poor  man,  <>1<1  Carroll  soon  dropped  asleep,  with  his  arms 
round  his  little  grandson,  both  overcome  by  an  unusually 
abundant  meal.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  was  awak- 
ened by  a  stealthy  noise.  AVithout  moving,  he  cast  his  eyes 
roun<l  the  cabin.  A  small  window,  through  which  the 
moon  broke  brilliantly,  was  open.  He  called  to  his  son, 
but  received  no  answer.  He  called  again  and  again;  all 
remained  silent.  He  arose,  and  crept  to  the  corner  where 
Michaul  had  laid  down.  It  was  em])ty.  He  looked  out 
through  the  window  into  the  moonlight.  The  figure  of  a 
man  appeared  Jit  a  distance,  just  about  to  enter  a  pasture- 
fidd  belonging  to  Mr.  Evans. 

Thf*  obi  man  leaned  his  hack  against  the  wall  of  the 
cabin,  trembling  with  sudden  and  terrible  misgivings. 
With  him,  the  language  of  virtue,  which  we  have  heard  him 

*  Ma  bouchal,  my  boy.        ^  ^{  chorra,  my  friend. 


MICHAEL   BANIM.  89 

utter,  was  not  cant.  In  early  prosperity,  in  subsequent 
misfortunes,  and  in  his  late  and  present  excess  of  wretched- 
ness, he  had  never  swerved  in  i)ractice  from  the  spirit  of  his 
own  exhortations  to  honesty  before  men,  and  love  for  and 
dependence  upon  God,  which,  as  he  has  truly  said,  he  had 
constantly  addressed  to  his  son  since  his  earliest  childhood. 
And  hitherto  that  son  had  indeed  walked  by  his  precepts, 
further  assisted  by  a  rej:>ular  observance  of  the  duties  of 
his  relij;ion.  Was  he  now  about  to  turn  into  another  path? 
to  bring  shame  on  his  father  in  his  old  age?  to  put  a  stain 
on  their  family  and  their  name?  "  the  name  that  a  rogue 
or  a  bowld  woman  never  bore,"  continued  old  Carroll,  in- 
dulging in  some  of  the  pride  and  egotism  for  which  an  Irish 
peasant  is,  under  his  circumstances,  remarkable.  And 
then  came  the  thought  of  the  personal  peril  incurred  by 
^lichaul;  and  his  agitation,  increased  by  the  feebleness  of 
age,  nearly  overpowered  him. 

He  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  shivering  like  one  in  an 
ague  fit,  when  he  heard  steps  outside  the  house.  He  lis- 
tened, and  they  ceased;  but  the  familiar  noise  of  an  old 
barn-door  creaking  on  its  crazy  hinges  came  on  his  ear.  It 
was  now  da^^-dawn.  He  dressed  himself,  stole  out  cau- 
tiously, peeped  into  the  barn  through  a  chink  of  the  door, 
and  ail  he  had  feared  met  full  confirmation.  There,  indeed, 
sat  Michaul,  busily  and  earnestly  engaged,  with  a  frowning 
brow  and  a  haggard  face,  in  quartering  the  animal  he  had 
stolen  from  Mr.  Evans'  field. 

The  sight  sickened  the  father;  the  blood  on  his  sou's 
hands  and  all.  He  was  barely  able  to  keep  himself  from 
falling.  A  fear,  if  not  a  dislike,  of  the  unhappy  culprit  also 
came  upon  him.  His  unconscious  impulse  was  to  re-enter 
their  cabin  unperceived,  without  speaking  a  word;  he  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  so;  and  then  he  fastened  the  door  again, 
and  undressed,  and  resumed  his  place  beside  his  innocent 
grandson. 

About  an  hour  afterwards,  Michaul  came  in  cautiously 
through  the  still  open  window,  and  also  undressed  and  re- 
clined on  his  straw,  after  glancing  towards  his  father's  bed, 
who  pretended  to  be  asleep.  At  the  usual  time  for  arising, 
old  Oarroll  saw  him  suddenly  jump  u])  ond  prepare  to  go 
abroad.     He  spoke  to  him,  leaning  on  his  elbow: 


on  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

"  And  what  Iiolhj  '  is  ou  you,  ma  houchal?  "  "  GoiD.2;  for 
tlio  u;ood  breaU'ast  I  pioiuisi'd  you,  father  dear."  "An' 
who's  the  jiood  Christhin  '11  give  id  to  us,  :Michaul?  "  "  Oh, 
you  '11  know  that  soon,  father;  now,  a  i^ood-bye  " — he  hur- 
ried to  the  door.  "A  <;()od-l>ye,  then,  Miehaul;  bud  tell 
me,  what's  that  ou  your  hand?"  "No — nothin',"  stam- 
mered Mieiiaul,  ehauiiiuu,  color,  as  he  hastily  examined  the 
hand  himself;  "  nolliiu'  is  on  it;  what  could  there  be?" 
(uor  was  there,  for  he  had  very  carefully  removed  all  evi- 
dence of  uuilt  from  his  ]>ersou,  aud  the  father's  question 
was  asked  ujion  lirounds  distinct  from  anythin.c:  he  then 
saw).  "Well,  arich,  an'  sure  I  didn't  say  auythinjj:  was 
on  it  wronp:,  or  anything  to  make  you  look  so  quare,  an' 
spake  so  sthrauge  to  your  father,  this  moruin'  ;  only  I  '11 
ax  you,  Michaul,  over  agin,  who  has  took  such  a  sudd'n 
likiu'  to  us,  to  send  us  the  good  break'ast?  an'  answer  me 
sthraight,  ^lichaul,  what  is  id  to  be  that  you  call  it  so 
good?  "  "  The  good  mate,  father  " —  he  was  again  passing 
the  threshold.  "  Stop  I ''  cried  his  father,  "  stop,  an'  turn 
foment  me.  ilate? — the  good  umte?  Wlmt  ud  bring  mate 
into  our  ])oor  house,  Michaul?  Tell  me,  1  bid  you  again  an' 
again,  wlio  is  to  give  id  to  you?  "    "  Why,  as  I  said  afore, 

father,  a  body  that "  "  A  body  that  thieved  id,  ^Michaul 

Carroll  I  "  added  the  old  man,  as  his  son  hesitated,  walking 
close  up  to  the  culprit;  "a  body  that  thieved  id,  an'  no 
other  body.  Don't  think  to  blind  me,  Michaul.  I  am  ould, 
to  be  sure,  but  sense  enough  is  left  in  me  to  look  round 
among  the  neighbors,  in  my  own  mind,  an'  know  that  none 
of  'em  that  has  the  will  has  the  power  to  send  us  the  mate 
for  our  break'ast  in  an  honest  wav.  An'  I  don't  sav  out- 
liglit  tluit  you  had  the  same  thought  wid  me  when  you 
( oiiscuted  to  take  it  from  a  thief;  I  don't  mean  to  say  that 
you  'd  go  to  turn  a  thief's  recaiver  at  this  hour  o'  your  life, 
an'  afther  growin'  up  from  a  l)oy  to  a  man  without  bringin' 
a  s7)ot  o'  shame  on  yourself,  oi-  on  your  iceenod:,  or  on  one 
(»f  us.  No,  I  won't  say  that.  Your  heart  was  scalded, 
MicluMil,  an'  your  mind  was  darkened,  for  a  start;  an'  the 
thought  o'  gettin'  comfort  for  the  ould  father,  an'  for  the 
little  son,  made  you  consent  in  a  hurry,  widout  lookin' 
well  afore  you,  or  widout  lookin'  up  to  your  good  God." 
"Father,  father,  let  me  alone  I  don't  sjjake  them  words 
*  What  hollg  is  on  yon  ?    What  are  you  about  ? 


MICHAEL    BANIM.  01 

to  mo,"  interrupted  ^Micbaul,  sittiii*:;  on  a  stool,  and  spread- 
in<;-  his  large  and  bard  hands  over  his  face.  "  Well,  thin, 
an'  I  won't,  avich;  I  won't;  nothing  to  trouble  you,  sure; 
I  didn't  mean  it — only  this,  a  vournecn,  don't  bring  a 
mouthful  o'  the  bad,  unlucky  victuals  into  this  cabin;  the 
pyatees,  the  wild  berries  o'  the  bush,  the  wild  roots  o'  tlie 
arth,  will  be  sweeter  to  us,  ^Nlichuul;  the  hunger  itself  will 
be  sweeter;  an'  when  we  give  (Jod  thanks  afther  our  poor 
meal,  or  afther  no  meal  at  all,  our  hearts  will  be  lighter 
and  our  hopes  for  to-morrow  sthronger,  avich,  ma  chrec, 
than  if  we  faisted  on  the  fat  o'  the  land,  but  c(mldn't  ax  a 
blessing  on  our  faist."  "  Well,  thin,  I  won't  either,  father 
— I  won't ;  an'  sure  you  have  your  way  now.  I  '11  only  go 
out  a  little  while  from  you  to  beg,  or  else,  as  you  say,  to 
root  down  in  the  ground,  with  my  nails,  like  a  baste  brute, 
for  our  break'ast."  "  My  rourncen  you  are,  Michaul,  an' 
my  blessin'  on  your  head ;  yes,  to  be  sure,  avich,  beg,  an'  I  '11 
beg  wid  you;  sorrow  a  shame  is  in  that — no,  but  a  good 
deed,  Michaul,  when  it 's  done  to  keep  us  honest.  So  come, 
we  'II  go  among  the  Christhins  together ;  onl^^,  before  we 
go,  Michaul,  my  own  dear  son,  tell  me — tell  one  thing." 
"  What,  father?  "  Michaul  began  to  suspect.  "  Never  be 
afraid  to  tell  me,  Michaul  Carroll,  ma  hoiichal,  I  won't — 
I  can't  be  angry  wid  you  now.  You  are  sorry,  an'  your 
Father  in  heaven  forgives  you,  and  so  do  I.  But  you  know, 
avich,  there  would  be  danger  in  quittin'  the  place  widout 
hidin'  every  scrap  of  anything  that  could  tell  on  us."  "  Tell 
on  us!  what  can  tell  on  us?  "  demanded  Michaul ;  "  what 's 
in  the  place  to  tell  on  us?  "  "  Nothiu'  in  the  cabin,  I  know, 
Michaul;  but—"  "But  what,  father?"  "Have  you  left 
nothin'  in  the  way  out  there?  "  whispered  the  old  man, 
pointing  towards  the  barn.  "  Out  there?  Where?  What? 
What  do  you  mean  at  all,  now,  father?  Sure  you  know 
it 's  your  own  self  has  kept  me  from  as  much  as  laying  a 
hand  on  it."  "  Ay,  to-day  moruin' ;  bud  you  laid  a  hand 
on  it  last  night,  avich,  an'  so — "  ^^  Curp  an  daouV.-'^ 
imprecated  Michaul,  "this  is  too  bad  at  any  rate;  no,  I 
didn't — last  night — let  me  alone,  I  bid  you,  father." 
"  Come  back  again,  Michaul,"  commanded  old  Carroll,  as 
the  son  once  more  hurried  to  the  door,  and  his  words  were 
instantly  obeyed.     Michaul,  after  a  glance  abroad,  and  a 

1  Curp  an  duoul,  Body  to  the  devil. 


n2  IRFS^H    LITERATURE. 

start,  which  the  ohl  inau  did  not  notice,  paced  to  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  haniiinu;  his  head,  and  saying  in  a  h^w  voice: 
"  Uiishth,  now,  father,  it's  time."  "No,  Michaul,  I  will 
not  hiishth,  an'  it's  not  time;  come  out  with  me  to  the 
barn."  "  lliislith  I  "  repeated  Michaul,  whispering  sharply; 
he  had  glanced  sideways  to  tlie  scjuare  patch  of  strong 
morning  sunlight  on  the  ground  of  the  cabin,  defined  there 
by  the  shape  of  the  open  door,  and  saw  it  intruded  upon  by 
the  shadow  of  a  man's  bust  leaning  forward  in  an  earnest 
j)osture.  "  Is  it  in  your  mind  to  go  back  into  your  sin, 
Michaul,  an'  tell  me  you  were  not  in  the  barn  at  daybreak 
the  mornin'?  ''  asked  his  father,  still  unconscious  of  a 
reason  for  silence.  "  Arrah,  hushth,  old  man!"  Michaul 
made  a  hasty  sign  towards  the  door,  but  was  disregarded. 
"  I  saw  you  in  id,"  pursued  old  Carroll,  sternly,  "  ay,  and 
at  your  work  in  id  too."  "  AVhat  's  that  you  *re  sayin,  ould 
Peery  Carroll?  "  denmnded  a  Avell-known  voice.  "  Enough 
to  hang  his  son!  "  whispered  Michaul  to  his  father,  as  Mr. 
Evans'  land  steward,  followed  by  his  herdsman  and  two 
policemen,  entered  the  cabin.  In  a  few  minutes  afterwards 
the  policemen  had  in  charge  the  dismembered  carcass  of 
the  sheep,  dug  up  out  of  the  floor  of  the  barn,  and  were 
escorting  Michaul,  handcuffed,  to  the  county  jail,  in  the 
vicinitv  of  the  next  town.  Thev  could  find  no  trace  of  the 
animal's  skin,  though  the}^  sought  attentively  for  it;  this 
seemed  to  disappoint  them  and  the  steward  a  good  deal. 

From  the  moment  that  they  entered  the  cabin  till  their 
departure,  old  Carroll  did  not  speak  a  word.  A^'ithout 
knowing  it,  as  it  seemed,  he  sat  down  on  his  straw  bed,  and 
remained  staring  stupidly  around  him,  or  at  one  or  another 
(»f  his  visitors.  When  Michaul  was  about  to  leave  his 
wretched  abode,  he  paced  quickly  towards  his  father,  and 
holding  out  his  ironed  hands,  and  turning  his  cheek  for  a 
kiss,  said,  smiling  miseral)ly:  "Cod  be  wid  3'ou,  father, 
dear."  Still  the  old  man  was  silent,  and  the  prisoner  and 
all  his  attendants  passed  out  on  the  road.  But  it  was  then 
the  agony  of  old  Carroll  assumed  a  distinctness.  Uttering 
a  fearful  cry,  he  snatch(Hl  up  his  still  sleeping  grandson, 
ran  with  the  l)oy  in  his  arms  till  he  overtook  Michaul;  and, 
kneeling  down  Ix'fore  him  in  the  dust,  said  :  "  I  ax  pardon 
o'  you,  arich;  won't  you  tell  me  1  have  id  afore  you  go?  an' 
here,  I  've  brought  little  Pintry  for  you  to  kiss;  you  forgot 


MICHAEL   BANIM.  93 

him,  a  vonrnecn."  "  No,  father,  I  didn't,"  answered  Mi- 
chaul,  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  the  child;  "an'  get  up,  father, 
get  up;  my  hands  are  not  my  own,  or  T  wouldn't  let  you 
do  that  afore  your  son.  Get  up,  there  's  nothiu'  for  you  to 
throuble  yourself  about;  that  is,  I  mean,  I  have  uothin'  to 
forgive  you;  no,  but  everything  to  be  thankful  for,  an'  to 
love  you  for;  you  were  always  an'  ever  the  good  father 
to  me;  an' — "  The  many  strong  and  bitter  feelings, 
which  till  now  he  had  almost  perfectly  kept  in,  found  full 
vent,  and  poor  Michaul  could  not  go  on.  The  parting 
from  his  father,  however,  so  different  from  what  it  had 
promised  to  be,  comforted  him.  The  old  man  held  him  in 
his  arms,  and  wept  on  his  neck.  They  were  separated  with 
difficult}''. 

Peery  Carroll,  sitting  on  the  roadside  after  he  lost  sight 
of  the  prisoner,  and  holding  his  screaming  grandson  on  his 
knees,  thought  the  cup  of  his  trials  was  full.  By  his  im- 
prudence he  had  fixed  the  proof  of  guilt  on  his  own  child ; 
that  reflection  was  enough  for  him,  and  he  could  indulge 
in  it  only  generally.  But  he  was  yet  to  conceive  distinctly 
in  what  dilemma  he  had  involved  himself,  as  well  as 
Michaul.  The  policemen  came  back  to  compel  his  appear- 
ance before  the  magistrate;  then,  when  the  little  child  had 
been  disposed  of  in  a  neighboring  cabin,  he  understood,  to 
his  consternation  and  horror,  that  he  was  to  be  the  chief 
witness  against  the  sheep  stealer.  Mr.  Evans'  steward 
knew  well  the  meaning  of  the  words  he  had  overheard  him 
say  in  the  cabin,  and  that  if  compelled  to  swear  all  he  was 
aware  of,  no  doubt  would  exist  of  the  criminality  of  Mi- 
chaul, in  the  eyes  of  a  jury.  "  'T  is  a  sthrange  thing  to  ax 
a  father  to  do,"  muttered  Peery,  more  than  once,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  magistrate's,  "  it 's  a  very  sthrange  thing." 

The  magistrate  proved  to  be  a  humane  man.  Notwith- 
standing the  zeal  of  the  steward  and  the  policemen,  he  com- 
mitted Michaul  for  trial,  without  continuing  to  press  the 
hesitating  and  bewildered  old  Peery  into  any  detailed  evi- 
dence; his  nature  seemed  to  rise  against  the  task,  and  he 
said  to  the  steward :  "  I  have  enough  of  facts  for  making 
out  a  committal ;  if  you  think  the  father  will  be  necessary 
on  the  trial,  subpana  him." 

The  steward  objected  that  Peery  would  abscond,  and 
demanded  to  have  him  bound  over  to  prosecute,  on  two 


04  IRL'^H    LITERATURE. 

sureties,  solvent  and  respectable.  The  magistrate  as- 
sented; Peer}'  could  name  no  bail;  and  consequently  be 
also  was  inanlied  to  prison,  tlionuh  prohibited  from  hold- 
ing tlie  k'ast  intercourse  with  Micluuil. 

The  assizes  soon  came  on.  ]Michaul  was  arraigned;  and, 
during  his  plea  of  "Not  guilty,"  his  father  appeared,  un- 
seen by  him,  in  the  jailer's  custody,  at  the  back  of  the  dock, 
or  rather  in  an  inner  dock.  The  trial  excited  a  keen  and 
painful  int<M'est  in  the  court,  the  bar,  the  jury  box,  and  the 
crowds  of  spi'ctators.  It  was  universally  known  that  a 
son  had  stolen  a  slieep,  partly  to  feed  a  starving  father; 
and  that  out  of  the  mouth  of  that  father  it  was  now  sought 
to  condemn  him.  "  A^'liat  will  the  old  man  do?  "  was  the 
general  (|uestion  wliich  ran  through  the  assembly;  and 
while  few  of  the  lower  orders  could  contemplate  the  pos- 
sibility of  his  swearing  to  the  truth,  many  of  their  betters 
scarcelv  hesitated  to  make  out  for  him  a  case  of  natural 
necessity  to  swear  falsely. 

The  trial  began.  The  first  witness,  the  herdsman,  proved 
the  loss  of  the  sheep,  and  the  finding  the  dismembered  car- 
cass in  the  old  barn.  The  policemen  and  the  steward  fol- 
lowed to  the  same  effect,  "and  the  latter  added  the  allu- 
sions whicii  he  had  heard  the  father  make  to  the  son,  upon 
tlic  morning  of  the  arrest  of  the  latter.  The  steward  went 
down  from  the  tal)le.  There  was  a  pause,  and  complete 
silence,  which  the  attorney  for  the  prosecution  broke  by 
saying  to  the  crier,  deliberately:  "Call  Peery  Carroll." 
"  Here,  sir,"  immediately  answered  Peery,  as  the  jailer  led 
him,  by  a  side  door,  out  of  the  back  dock  to  the  table.  The 
l)risoner  started  round ;  l)ut  the  new  witness  against  him 
liad  passed  for  an  instant  into  the  crowd. 

The  next  instant,  (»ld  Peery  was  seen  ascending  the  table, 
assisted  by  the  jailer  and  by  many  other  commiserating 
hands,  near  him.  Every  glance  fixed  upon  his  face.  The 
barristers  looked  wistfully  uj)  from  their  seats  round  the 
table;  the  judge  put  a  glass  to  his  eye,  and  seemed  to  study 
his  features  attentively.  Among  the  audience  there  ran  a 
low  but  expressive  murmur  of  ])i<y  and  interest. 

Though  much  emaciated  by  conlinement,  anguish,  and 
sus[)ense,  I*eery's  cheeks  had  a  flush,  and  his  weak  blue 
eye.s  glittered.  The  half-gai)ing  expression  of  his  parched 
and  haggard  lips  was  miserable  to  see.    And  yet  he  did  not 


MICHAEL    BAXIM.  95 

tremble  much,  nor  appear  so  confounded  as  upon  the  day 
of  his  visit  to  the  ma<;istrate. 

The  moment  he  stood  upright  on  the  tabk',  lie  turned 
himself  fully  to  the  jud^e,  without  a  glance  towards  the 
dock.  "  Sit  down,  sit  down,  poor  man,"  said  the  judge. 
"  Thanks  to  you,  my  lord,  I  will,"  answered  Peery,  "  only, 
first,  I  'd  ax  you  to  let  me  kneel,  for  a  little  start  ";  and  he 
accordingly  did  kneel,  and  after  l)()wing  his  head,  and 
forming  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his  forehead,  he  looked  up, 
and  said :  "  My  Judge  in  heaven  above,  't  is  you  I  pray  to 
keep  me  to  m.y  duty,  afore  my  earthly  judge,  this  day — 
amen";  and  then,  repeating  the  sign  of  the  cross,  he 
seated  himself. 

The  examination  of  the  witness  commenced,  and  hu- 
manely proceeded  as  follows — (the  counsel  for  the  prosecu- 
tion taking  no  notice  of  the  superfluity  of  Peery 's  answers) 
— "  Do  you  know  Michaul,  or  Michael,  Carroll,  the  pris- 
oner at  the  bar?  "  "  Afore  that  night,  sir,  I  believed  I 
knew  him  well;  every  thought  of  his  mind;  every  bit  of  the 
heart  in  his  body;  afore  that  night,  no  living  creatur  could 
throw  a  word  at  Michaul  Carroll,  or  say  he  ever  forgot  his 
father's  renown,  or  his  love  of  his  good  God ;  an'  sure  the 
people  are  afther  telling  you,  by  this  time,  how  it  come 
about  that  night ;  an'  you,  my  lord — an'  ye,  gintlemen — an' 
all  good  Christians  that  hear  me;  here  I  am  to  help  to  hang 
him — my  own  bo}^,  and  my  only  one — but  for  all  that,  gin- 
tlemen, ye  ought  to  think  of  it;  't  was  for  the  weenock  and 
the  ould  father  that  he  done  it;  indeed,  an'  deed,  we  hadn't 
a  pyatee  in  the  place,  an'  the  sickness  was  among  us,  a 
start  afore;  it  took  the  wife  from  him,  an'  another  babby; 
an'  id  had  himself  down,  a  week  or  so  beforehand;  an'  all 
that  day  he  was  looking  for  work,  but  couldn't  get  a  hand's 
turn  to  do ;  an'  that 's  the  way  it  was ;  not  a  mouthful  for 
me  an'  little  Peery ;  an'  more  betoken,  he  grew  sorry  for  id, 
in  the  mornin',  an'  promised  me  not  to  touch  a  scrap  of 
what  was  in  the  barn — ay,  long  afore  the  steward  and  the 
peelers  came  on  us — but  was  Avillin'  to  go  among  the 
neighbors  an'  beg  our  break'ast,  along  wid  myself,  from 
door  to  door,  sooner  than  touch  it."  "  It  is  my  painful 
duty,"  resumed  the  barrister,  when  Peery  would  at  length 
cease,  "to  ask  3'ou  for  closer  information.  You  saw  Mi- 
chael Carroll   in  the  barn,   that   night?"     ''MtisJia — the 


96  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Lord  pity  liim  and  me — I  did,  sir."  "  Doing  what?  "  "  The 
sheep  between  his  hands,"  answered  Peery,  dropping  his 
head,  and  speaking  almost  inandibly.  ''  I  must  still  give 
yon  pain,  I  fear;  stand  up,  take  the  crier's  rod,  and  if  you 
see  Miehael  Carroll  in  court,  lay  it  on  his  head."  "  Och, 
niiisha,  musha,  sir,  don't  ax  me  to  do  that!  "  pleaded  Peery, 
rising,  wringing  his  hands,  and  for  the  lirst  time  weeping. 
"  Oeli,  don't,  my  lord,  don't,  and  may  your  own  judgment 
be  favorable  the  last  day."  "  I  am  sorry  to  command  you 
to  do  it,  witness,  but  you  must  take  the  rod,"  answered  the 
judge,  bending  his  head  close  to  his  notes,  to  hide  his  own 
tears,  and,  at  the  same  time,  many  a  veteran  barrister 
rested  his  forehead  on  the  edge  of  the  table.  In  the  body  of 
the  court  were  heard  sobs.  "  Michaul,  avich!  Michaul, 
a  chorra  ma  cJircc!''  exclaimed  Peery,  when  at  length  he 
took  the  rod,  and  faced  round  to  his  son,  "  is  id  your  father 
they  make  to  do  it,  ma  houchal  ?  "  "  My  father  does  what 
is  right,"  answered  Michaul,  in  Irish.  The  judge  imme- 
diately asked  to  have  his  words  translated;  and,  when  he 
learned  their  import,  regarded  the  prisoner  with  satisfac- 
tion. ''  We  rest  here,  my  lord,"  said  the  counsel,  with  the 
air  of  a  nmn  freed  from  a  painful  task. 

The  judge  instantly  turned  to  the  jury  box. 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury.  That  the  prisoner  at  the  bar 
stole  the  sheep  in  question,  there  can  be  no  shade  of  moral 
doubt.  But  you  have  a  very  peculiar  case  to  consider.  A 
sou  steals  a  slieej)  that  his  own  famishing  father  and  his 
own  famishing  son  may  have  food.  His  aged  parent  is  com- 
pelled to  give  evidence  against  him  here  for  the  act.  The 
old  man  virtuously'  tells  the  truth,  and  the  whole  truth, 
before  you  and  me.  He  sacrifices  his  natural  feelings — and 
we  have  seen  that  they  are  lively — to  his  honest}^,  and  to  his 
ndigious  sense  of  the  sacred  obligations  of  an  oath.  Gen- 
tlemen, 1  will  pause  to  observe  that  the  old  man's  conduct 
is  strikingly  exemplary,  and  even  noble.  It  teaches  all  of 
us  a  lesson.  Gentlemen,  it  is  not  within  the  province  of  a 
judge  to  c-cnsurc;  the  rigor  of  the  proceedings  which  have 
sent  him  before  us.  But  I  venture  to  anticipate  your  pleas- 
ure that,  notwithstanding  all  the  evidence  given,  you  will 
be  enabled  to  acrpiit  that  old  man's  son,  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar.  I  have  said  there  cannot  be  the  shade  of  a  moral 
doubt  that  he  has  stolen  the  sheep,  and  I  repeat  the  words. 


MICHAEL   BAmM.  97 

But,  gentlenion,  there  is  a  lesjal  doubt,  to  the  full  benefit  of 
which  he  is  entitled.  The  sheep  has  not  been  identified. 
The  hei'dsinnn  could  not  venture  to  identify  it  (and  it 
would  have  been  strau^u^e  if  he  could)  from  the  dismem- 
bered limbs  found  in  the  barn.  To  his  mark  on  its  skin, 
indeed,  he  might  have  positively  spoken;  but  no  skin  has 
been  discovered.  Therefore,  according  to  the  evidence,  and 
you  have  sworn  to  decide  by  that  alone,  the  prisoner  is  en- 
titled to  your  ac(iuittal.  Possibly  now  that  the  prosecutor 
sees  the  case  in  its  full  bearing,  he  may  be  pleased  with  this 
result." 

While  the  jury,  in  evident  satisfaction,  prepared  to  re- 
turn their  verdict,  Mr.  Evans,  who  had  but  a  moment  be- 
fore returned  home,  entered  the  court,  and  becoming  aware 
of  the  concluding  words  of  the  judge,  expressed  his  sorrow 
aloud  that  the  prosecution  had  ever  been  undertaken ;  that 
circumstances  had  kept  him  uninformed  of  it,  though  it 
had  gone  on  in  his  name ;  and  he  begged  leave  to  assure  his 
lordship  that  it  would  be  his  future  effort  to  keep  Michaul 
Carroll  in  his  former  path  of  honesty,  by  finding  him  lion- 
est  and  ample  employment,  and,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  to 
reward  the  virtue  of  the  old  father. 

While  Peery  Carroll  was  laughing  and  crying  in  a 
breath,  in  the  arms  of  his  delivered  son,  a  subscription, 
commenced  by  the  bar,  was  mounting  into  a  considerable 
sum  for  his  advantage. 


JANE   BARLOW. 

(1857 ) 

Jane  Barlow  was  born  in  Clontarf,  County  Dublin,  about  1857. 
She  is  a  daughter  of  the  Rev.  J.  W.  Barlow,  Vice-Provost  of  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  and  is  a  scholar  and  great  reader.  She  has  spent 
most  of  her  life  at  Raheny  in  the  same  county,  and  has  published,  in 
verse,  '  Bogland  Studies,'  'The  Battle  of  the  Frogs  and  Mice,' a 
metrical  vereion  of  the  '  Batrachomyomachia,'  '  The  End  of  Elfin- 
Town,'  besides  scattered  poems.  Her  prose  works  include  'Irish 
Idylls,'  •  Kerrigan's  Quality,'  '  Strangers  at  Lisconnel,'  a  second 
series  of  'Irish  Idylls,'  'Maureen's  Fairing'  and  'Mrs.  Martin's 
Company,' both  in  'The  Iris  Library,'  'A  Creel  of  Ii'ish  Stories,' 
and  '  From  the  East  Unto  the  West.' 

"Miss  Jano  Barlow's  admirable  sketches  of  peasant-life  in  Ire- 
land have,"  says  Mr.  George  A.  Greene  in  '  A  Treasury  of  Irish  Po- 
etry,' "  in  a  few  years  gained  for  her  a  well-deserved  reputation 
among  the  Irish  writers  in  prose  of  the  present  generation;  it  may 
be  doubted.  in<leed,  whether  nny  one  has  to  the  same  extent  sounded 
the  depths  of  Irish  character  in  the  country  districts  and  touched  so 
many  chords  of  sj'iupathy,  humor,  and  pathos.  Of  her  work  in 
verse,  a  portion,  and  that  perhaps  the  most  significant,  falls  into  the 
same  category.  '  Bogland  Studies '  (among  which  '  Terence  Macran  ' 
maybe  included)  are  indeed,  save  for  the  metrical  form,  just  another 
volume  of  the  '  Irish  Idylls '  which  have  charmed  and  delighted  so 
many  readers.  It  is  not  merely  the  peasant  dialect  that  is  faithfullj^ 
and  picturesquely  reproduced,  but  the  working  of  the  rural  mind 
and  the  emotions  of  tlie  heart,  fully  and  sympathetically  under- 
stood; f30  much  so  that  in  the  eight  studies  tlius  classed  together  it 
has  become  inevitable  that  in  each  case  the  narrator  should  be  the 
peasant  himself  or  herself.  It  is  because  the  author  has  so  com- 
pletely succeeded  in  identifying  herself  with  her  characters  that  the 
language  employed  by  tliem  as  means  of  expression  is  so  veritably 
and  viviflly  Irisli,  natural,  and  not  put  on.  Thus  the  flashes  of  wit, 
the  neat  turns  of  phrase,  the  (juick  and  apt  similes,  tJie  quaint  and 
picturesque  form  and  color  of  language,  strike  the  reader  not  only 
as  characteristic,  unmistakable  Irish  sayings,  exactly  such  as  are  to 
be  caught  flying  in  every  village,  but  they  arise  naturally  out  of  the 
thought." 

AN   EVICTION.  1 

From  '  Herself,'  in  '  Irish  Idylls.' 

When  John  died,  the  land-ajijeut  wrote  to  his  employer 
at  the  ('arlton  that  the  widow's  ever  payinj?  up  ai)i)eared 

1  Copyright  1891  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  New  York.     By  permission. 

98 


HAfl  aviAi 


'\    IS)<^\     x\\    ftain* 


f/ 


JANE  BARLOW 

From  a  photograph  taken  in   1904  by  J    F.  Geoghegan,   of  Dublin 


JANE    BARLOW.  99 

to  be  an  utterly  liojx'less  matter — Avhich  was  quite  true. 
Jlei'  nei,nIibors  were  indeed  ready  to  lend  lier,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, a  lielpini;'  hand,  but  it  eould  not  extend  itself  to  the 
payment  of  her  rent,  and  to  grub  that  out  of  her  screed  of 
stony  ground,  was  a  task  beyond  her  powers.  The  land- 
agent  also  wrote  that  the  poor  woman,  who  seemed  to  })e  an 
uncivilized,  feeble-minded  soi't  of  creature,  would  be  much 
better  in  the  Union,  and  that  as  she  must  at  any  rate  be  got 
rid  of,  he  had  taken  immediate  steps  for  serving  her  with 
the  necessary  notices.  The  vvoman's  own  view  of  the  case 
was  in  sum:  "  Sure,  what  would,  become  of  the  childer  if 
she  would  be  put  out  of  it?  "  an  argument  the  futility  of 
which  it  would  have  been  hard  to  make  her  understand. 

She  was  put  out  of  it,  however,  one  blustery  autumn  day, 
v.hen  the  sub-sheriiif's  party  and  the  police  had  caused 
an  unwonted  stir  and  bustle  all  the  morning  on  the  Duff- 
clane  road,  along  which  so  many  feet  seldom  pass  in  a 
twelvemonth.  The  district  was  reported  disturbed,  and. 
therefore  a  squadron  of  dragoons  had  been  brought  from 
the  nearest  garrison,  a  tedious  wa^'  off,  to  protect  and 
overawe.  Their  scarlet  tunics  and  brass  helmets  enlivened, 
the  outward  aspect  of  the  proceedings  vastly,  making  such 
a  gorgeous  pageant  as  our  black  bogland  Iian  perhaps  never 
witnessed  before  or  since.  Not  a  gossoon  but  worshiped 
the  stately  horses  as  they  passed,  and  thought  their  plumed 
and  burnished  riders  almost  as  supernaturally  superb.  But 
it  must  be  owned  that  the  latter  were  for  the  most  part  in 
very  human  bad  tempers.  In  fact  when  they  ascertained 
the  nature  and  scope  of  the  duty  on  which  they  had  come 
so  far,  some  of  them  said  a  choleric  word  witli  such  em.- 
phasis  that  their  superiors  were  obliged  to  choose  between 
deafness  and  mutiny,  or  at  least  insubordination,  and  dis- 
creetly preferred  the  lesser  evil. 

When  the  invading  force  entered  Lisconnel,  which  it  did 
among  afternoon  beams,  just  begun  to  mellow  and  slant 
dazzlingly,  it  found  an  ally  in  old  Mrs.  Kilfoyle,  inasmuch 
as  she  enticed  Mrs.  O'DriscoU  to  pay  her  a  visit  at  the 
critical  moment  of  its  arrival.  The  old  woman  had  recog- 
nized the  widow  O'Driscoll's  fate  as  one  of  those  things 
with  w  hicli  there  is  no  contendingj  and  had  said  to  her- 
self and  her  daughter-in-law  :  "  Where  's  the  use  of  havin' 
them  risin'  a  row  there  wid  draggin'  her  out,  the  crathur, 


lUO  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

God  pity  her,  tliat  'II  iiivcr  quit,  for  sartiii,  of  her  own  free 
will?  I  *11  just  step  over  to  her  and  ax  her  to  come  j'ive 
nie  a  hand  wid  mend  in'  the  bottom  that 's  fallin'  out  of 
tir  ould  turf-ereel.  She  did  always  be  great  at  them  jobs, 
and  always  ready  to  do  a  body  a  good  turn,  I  '11  say  that  for 
her." 

-'  'Deed  yis,"  said  Mrs.  Brian. 

So  it  eame  about  that  at  the  time  when  the  forcible  en- 
trance of  her  cabin  was  being  effected,  Mrs.  O'Driscoll  was 
out  of  sight  in  the  Kilfoyles'  dark  little  room,  where  the 
two  Mrs.  Kilfoyles  detained  her  as  long  as  they  could.  But 
in  the  end  they  were  not  abh^  to  prevent  the  evicted  tenant 
from  joining  the  group  of  angrj'  and  scared  and  wobegone 
faces,  gathered  as  near  the  doomed  dwelling  as  the  authori- 
ties would  permit,  and  from  saying,  "  Wirra,  wirra,"  in  a 
half-bewildered  horror,  as  she  saw  each  one  more  of  her 
few  goods  and  chattels  added  to  the  little  heap  of  chaos 
into  which  her  domestic  world  had  changed  fast  by  her 
door.  It  was  decreed  that  her  cabin  should  be  not  only  un- 
roofed but  demolished,  because,  as  an  old  bailiff  dolefully 
remarked,  "  There  niver  was  any  tell  in'  where  you  'd  have 
those  boyos.  As  like  as  not  they  'd  land  the  thatch  on  to  it 
agin,  the  first  minnit  your  back  was  turned,  as  aisy  as 
you  'd  clap  your  ould  caubeen  on  your  head,  and  there  'd  be 
the  whole  i)ot]ieration  over  agin  as  fresh  as  a  daisy." 
Therefore  when  the  ancient,  smoke-steeped,  weather-worn 
covering  had  been  plucked  from  off'  the  skeleton  rafters, 
and  lay  strewn  around  in  flocks  and  wisps  like  the  wreck 
of  an  ogre's  brown  wig,  the  picks  and  crowbars  came  into 
play,  for  it  was  before  the  days  of  battering-ram  or  maiden. 
The  mud  walls  were  solid  and  thick,  yet  had  to  yield,  and 
presently  a  broad  bit  of  the  back  wall  fell  outward  all  of  a 
piece,  as  no  other  sort  of  masonry  falls,  with  a  dull,  heavy 
thud  like  a  dead  body.  The  lime- washed  inner  surface, 
thus  turned  up  skywards,  gleamed  shar7)ly,  despite  all  its 
smoke-griine,  against  the  <lrab  clay,  Jind  thougli  the  interior 
had  been  ycry  thoroughly  dismantled,  a  few  small  pictures 
were  still  visible,  nailed  on  the  white.  As  the  cordon  of 
police  and  other  oflicials  fell  back  a  pace  or  so  to  avoid  the 
toppling  wall,  the  WHdow  M'Gurk  seized  the  opportunity 
to  make  a  sally  and  capture  one  of  thes(^  derelict  orna- 
ments.    It  was  a  Holy  Family,  a  crudely  colored  print,  all 


JANE   BARLOW.  101 

crimson  and  blue,  with  a  deep  gilt  border,  such  as  you 
might  purchase  for  a  half-penny  any  day. 

"Ay,  sure  it's  great  men  you  are  intirely  to  be  evlctitf' 
the  likes  of  them,"  she  cried  shrilly,  waving  her  loot  aloft, 
as  she  was  hustled  back  to  a  respectfuj  distance,  and  Lis- 
connel  responded  with  a  low  and  s alien' murmur^ 

But  Mrs.  O'Driscoll's  attoitioii,  was  vie'ry'  opportunely 
taken  up  by  the  restoration  of  this' piet^e' Of  property. 
"  Och,  woman  alive,"  she  said,  "  and  it  was  Himself 
brought  me  that  one — give  it  to  me  into  me  hand.  Sure  I 
remimber  the  day  yit,  as  if  the  sun  hadn't  gone  down  on  it. 
Th'  ould  higgler  Finny  had  come  up  wid  his  basket,  and 
while  some  of  the  rest  did  be  about  gittin'  a  few  trifles,  1 
was  in  an  oncommou  admiration  of  this;  howsome'er  I 
hadn't  a  pinny  to  me  name  to  be  spindin'  on  any  thin'  in 
the  world,  so  I  let  him  go.  But  sure  Himself  met  him 
below  on  the  road,  and  happint  to  have  a  ha-pinny  about 
him,  and  so  he  brought  it  home  to  me.  I  mind  I  run  out 
and  borried  a  tack  from  poor  Mick  Ryan  to  put  it  up  wid. 
Ah  dear,  look  at  the  tear  it 's  got  at  the  top  comin'  off." 

This  damage  seemed  for  the  time  being  to  concern  her 
more  than  any  of  her  other  troubles,  and  she  alloAved  her- 
self to  be  drawn  away  on  the  pretext  of  depositing  the  pic- 
ture safely  in  the  Kilfoyles'  cabin,  where  she  remained 
until  the  invaders  had  departed  from  Lisconnel.  Every- 
body else  watched  them  trooping  off  over  the  bogland,  with 
brass  and  scarlet  flashing  and  glowing  splendidly  in  windy 
gleams  of  the  sunset.  They  had  gone  a  long  way  before  the 
purple-shadowed  gloaming  had  swallowed  up  the  last  far- 
espied  glitter. 

With  the  Kilfoyles  she  found  a  lodging  for  some  time, 
but  she  ended  her  days  at  the  Widow  M'Gurk's,  where  there 
was  no  less  hospitality  and  more  spare  room.  She  was 
persuaded  to  make  the  move  chiefly  by  the  consideration 
that  she  would  there  be  nearer  the  crest  of  the  hill.  For 
the  dominant  dread  which  now  brooded  over  her  life — we 
so  seldom  fall  too  low  for  special  fear — was  the  home- 
coming of  the  childer:  "And  they  to  be  steppin'  along, 
the  crathurs,  expectin'  no  harm,  and  then  when  they  're  up 
the  hill,  and  in  sight  of  our  bit  of  a  house,  all  of  a  suddint 
to  see  there  was  no  thrace  of  it  on'y  a  disolit  roon.  They 
might  better  keep  the  breadth  of  the  ocean-say  between 


ic-  /RLsll    LITERATURE. 

t!R*m  iviul  that."  She  seemed  to  be  contiunally  living 
tIiroiii;h  in  iniaiiination  this  terrible  moment,  and  grew 
more  and  more  eager  to  avert  it.  "  If  I  eould  get  e'er  a 
(lianst  to  see  them  eomin'  the  road,"  she  said,  "  and  give 
them  vviirhiu'  afore'  they -d  erossed  the  knoekawn,^ 
't  wonldn't  eome  so  crooi  .hard  on  them."  And  with  that 
end  in  We'V.  she  i-*pent  raany  an  hour  of  the  bleak  winter 
(lavs  wliieh'followeit  Tier  eviction  in  looking  out  from  the 
unsheltered  hillside  towards  Dnt'felane. 

It  was  vain  now  for  any  neighbor  to  profess  a  firm  belief 
that  they  would  never  return,  just  as  eonfidently  as  he  or 
she  hrtd  formerly  been  used  to  predict  their  appearance 
one  of  these  days.  Mrs.  O'Driscoll  lihtentnl  meekly  while 
it  was  pointed  out  to  her  how  probably  they  had  settled 
themselves  down  over  there  for  good  and  all,  and  got  mar- 
ried maybe;  or  who  could  tell  that  one  of  them  mightn't 
have  been  took  bad,  and  have  gone  beyond  this  world  alto- 
gether the  same  as  his  poor  father?  But  then  she  went  and 
looked  out  again.  The  young  Doynes  and  Sheridans,  who 
at  that  tiii'e  were  (|uite  small  children,  remember  how  she 
would  stop  them  when  she  met  them,  and  bid  them  be  sure, 
if  ever  by  any  chance  they  saw  liose  or  one  of  the  lads  com- 
ing along,  to  mind  and  tell  them  that  their  father  was  gone, 
and  she  was  put  out  of  it,  but  tliat  Mrs.  IM'Gurk  vsas  givin' 
her  sheltei",  and  no  fear  they  wouldn't  find  her;  and  to  bid 
them  make  baste,  all  the  haste  they  could. 

It  must  have  been  when  she  was  on  the  watch  one 
perishing  March  day  that  she  caught  the  cold  which  car- 
ried her  olf  with  very  little  resistance  on  her  part.  She 
was  herself  too  weak,  and  still  too  mu*]i  taken  up  with 
the  childei-'s  alTairs,  to  fret  about  the  fact  that  the  ex- 
penses of  her  "buryin"'  would  certainly  be  defrayed  by 
the  Llouse,  but  it  distressed  Lisconnel  seriouslj^,  and  would 
never  have  been  permitted  to  occur,  could  the  requisite 
sum  liave  been  by  any  means  amassed.  The  circumstance 
adflcd  some  gloom  to  tlie  sorrowful  mood  in  whicli  her 
neighbors  saw  another  ]>rocession  pass  over  the  hill  on  a 
still  wet  morning,  when  the  rain  rustled  all  along  the  road, 
and  tlie  gray  mist  curtains  Avere  clos(d,y  drawn. 

None  of  the  cliildcr  have  <ome  back  again,  and  it  may 
now  be  liojM'd  that  they  never  will. 

1  Knoclfavn,  a  hillock. 


JAl^E   BARLOW.  103 

THE  MURPHYS'   SUPPER. 

From  '  The  Whitehall  Review.' 

The  coekle-pickers  wlio  carry  on  their  business  along  the 
stretches  of  muddy  sea-shore  between  Dublin  and  Howth 
are  not  a  particularly  attractive  class  of  people.  The  trav- 
eler on  the  road  which  leads  to  and  from  the  scene  of  their 
labors  is  likely  to  have  an  opportunity  for  observing  their 
outward  peculiarities,  as  he  will  probably  meet  or  pass 
whole  batches  of  them  shuffling  along  barefooted,  with 
a  gait  that  always  seems  to  be  on  the  point  of  breaking 
into  a  slow  jog-trot,  and  bending  forward  under  the  weight 
of  their  damp  heavy  baskets.  They  are  not  a  handsome 
race,  .shaggy  beetling  brows,  small  twinkling,  peering  eyes, 
harsh  black  locks,  and  a  prognathic  contour  of  visage  being 
common  features  among  them.  Nor  is  their  costume  cal- 
culated to  set  them  off.  Unpicturesque  squalor  is  the  main 
characteristic  of  their  garments,  which  are  in  texture  and 
tint  curiously  subdued  to  what  their  wearers  Y\'ork  in. 
Their  multitudinous  tatters  flap  with  a  sort  of  unnatural 
stiffness  on  the  breeze,  as  if  starched  with  a  compound  of 
the  wet  sand  and  mud  which  their  color  so  closely  matches, 
Avhile  here  and  there  the  peculiar  iridescent  greenish  shade 
of  stuff  that  has  once  been  black  gives  a  suggestion  of  the 
slimy  v.eed-scum  which  in  some  places  films  over  that  oogy 
shore. 

If  you  had  happened  to  meet  Joe  Murphy  among  a  gang 
of  cockle-pickers,  the  chances  are  that  you  would  have  con- 
sidered him  to  be  the  most  ill-looking  of  the  set  by  reason  of 
the  stolidly  sullen  expression  which  pervaded  his  coarse 
ugly  visage.  And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  a  cross- 
grained  and — rather  an  exceptional  circumstance  among 
his  class — a  very  stupid,  slow-minded  man.  This  last 
quality  was  to  a  certain  extent  the  cause  of  the  first,  his 
moroseness  being  continually  aggravated  by  a  dim  con- 
sciousness that  he  was  somehow  more  likely  to  be  taken 
in,  and  less  able  to  effectively  reciprocate,  than  were  the 
majority  of  his  acquaintances.  But  it  may  be  inferred  that 
bad  temper  ran  in  his  branch  of  the  ^lurphy  family,  inas- 
much as  his  sister  Biddy,  who  had  her  full  share  of  mother- 
wit,  was  even  crosser  than  he.    Indeed,  she  had  been  a  sort 


104  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

of  daily  tcM-ror  to  the  cocklo-picking-  fraternity  and  sister- 
hood, until,  within  the  last  six  mouths  or  so,  a  bad  cold 
luul  teruiiuated  in  a  decline,  the  rapid  progress  of  which 
prcvcuted  her  from  any  longer  taking  part  in  their  pil- 
griuiages.  The  disappearance  from  among  them  of  her 
peevish  face  and  shrewish  tougue  was  a  real  relief  to  her 
former  associates,  though,  in  view  of  the  melanchol}^  cause 
of  her  absence,  they  damped  down  their  rejoicing  decor- 
ously with  man}'  a  seemly  and  not  insincerely  uttered 
'*  Poor  cratur  I ''  and  "  The  saints  pity  her!  "  Joe  Murphy 
was  very  far  from  sharing  in  their  gladness;  and  this  was 
not  because  the  burden  of  Biddy's  maintenance  now  fell 
upon  him,  but  because  for  thirty-five  out  of  the  forty  years 
of  his  life  he  had  cared  more  about  her  than  about  anything 
else  in  the  world. 

Joe  had  more  capacity  for  affection  than  a  casual  ob- 
server would  have  surmised.  It  is  true  that  he  was  at  this 
time,  owing  to  the  matured  inertness  and  rigidit}^  of  his 
dull  faculties,  almost  incapable  of  forming  any  new  at- 
tachment; but  to  those  which  circumstances  had  thrown 
in  his  way  during  the  more  receptive  period  of  youth  he 
liad  always  been  blindly  and  unswervingly  faithful.  Orig- 
inally one  of  a  large  family,  among  whom  he  had  occupied 
llic  position  of  general  laughing-stock  and  scapegoat,  he 
had  attached  himself  adhesively  to  every  member  of  the 
circle,  but  especially'  to  little  Biddy,  the  youngest  child, 
j)erha])s  because  for  the  first  two  or  three  years  of  her  life 
she  had  been  unable  to  gibe  at,  snub,  and  browbeat  him, 
as  her  elders  did — a  course  of  procedure  which  she,  how- 
ever, took  the  earliest  opportunity  of  adopting.  And  now 
dcatlj  and  dispersion  had  left  her,  in  the  shape  of  an  ill- 
favored  middle-aged  woiiian,  his  whole  accessible  relative, 
an<l  the  object  of  whatever  solicitude  he  had  to  spare  from 
his  own  immediate  concerns — an  amount  which,  all  things 
considered,  was  quite  up  to  the  average.  Naturally,  there- 
fore, the  idea  of  losing  this  unique  treasure  was  intol- 
erable to  him.  During  the  time  when  she  was  away  at  the 
hosT)ilal,  and  so  ill  that  he  was  forced  to  contemplate  the 
possibility  of  her  never  coming  out  alive,  Ik;  was  like  ou(! 
diHtra<t<*d;  and  when  she  at  last  return(!d  to  him,  apparent- 
ly not  much  the  worse,  "  only  a  thrifle  wake,"  he  made  haste 
to  thrust  the  miserable  fear  into  the  remotest  background 


JANE    BARLOW.  105 

of  his  thoiif^bts.  In  the  first  joy  of  his  relief  from  imme- 
diate apprehension,  he  brought  Biddy's  basket  out  of  tlie 
corner,  and  spliced  one  of  the  ro])es  which  was  in  a  doubt- 
ful condition,  thinkin/jj  the  while  that  in  another  day  or 
two  she  would  be  able  to  ''  thranip  around  "  as  usual,  and 
resolvinj;  that  he  would  in  future  always  give  her  a  long 
lift  with  her  load  on  the  road  home. 

But  when  the  weeks  went  by,  and  Biddy  still  seemed  to 
be  incapable  of  doing  anything  except  crawl  about  and 
cough,  his  fears  began  to  creep  back  to  him  again,  mucli  as 
he  had  often  seen  the  cold  sluggish  tide  stealing  in  over  the 
weedy  shingle;  and  at  length  his  uneasiness  rose  to  such  a 
height  that  it  drove  him  to  seek  an  interview  with  the 
doctor  who  had  attended  her  in  the  hospital.  But  from 
this  interview,  which  he  encompassed  at  the  cost  of  great 
trouble,  and  vast  exertion  of  his  tardily  moving  intellect, 
he  derived  little  information^  and  less  comfort.  The  doc- 
tor, tired  and  hurried  after  a  long  day's  work,  was 
neither  able  nor  willing  to  bestow  much  time  upon  the  un- 
couth-looking individual  who  so  inopportunely  wanted  to 
know  "  what  way  Biddy  Murphy  was,"  and  so  large  a  por- 
tion of  the  few  minutes  which  he  could  spare  was  taken  up 
in  identifying  this  particular  Biddy,  that  he  had  only  time 
for  a  curt  intimation  that  he  "  saw  no  prospect  of  her 
ultimate  recovery " — a  verdict  which  was  about  as  in- 
telligible to  Joe  as  it  would  be  to  some  of  us  if  delivered 
rapidly  in  Greek.  After  much  painful  pondering,  however, 
he  interpreted  it  to  mean  that  "  The  doctor  didn't  think 
she  'd  be  anythin'  betther  yit  awhile  " — a  clieerless  reflec- 
tion, which  was  rendered  still  gloomier  by  his  vague 
misgiving  that  the  words  might  bear  an  even  more  unfavor- 
able construction. 

Such  being  the  state  of  his  feelings,  he  was  caused  in- 
finite miserable  irritation  by  the  frankness  Avith  which, 
quite  conformably  to  the  code  of  manners  recognized  in 
their  grade  of  society,  his  companions  discussed  Biddy's 
future  prospect,  more  especially  since  they  took,  as  is  their 
wont,  the  most  desponding  view  of  her  condition.  He 
could  by  no  means  endure  to  hear  their  outspoken  prognos- 
tications and  corroborative  instances,  and  the  impatience 
which  he  manifested  when  addressed  upon  the  subject  was 
regarded   as  indicating  a  highly  reprehensible   want  of 


IOC  JUL^U    UTEliATURE. 

proper  feeliiiii".  Thus,  wht'ii  one  morniup;  he  was  accosted 
by  Jiidv  Flymi  with,  "Well,  Joe,  and  how  's  the  sisther 
to-day?-'  and  Majiiiie  Byine  added,  "  Och  sure,  she'll  not 
be  a  thronble  to  ye  inucli  loui^er,  the  cratui*',"  he  roiii>hly 
r(.H]iie.sted  them  to  ''  lioiild  their  fool's  gab,"  appendiuii; 
\ai-ioiis  epithets  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  reproduce. 
Whereupon  Magj^ie  expressed  her  opinion  that  he  was  "  a 
big  brute,"  and  "  as  bittlier  as  sut";  while  Judy  that  even- 
ing saved  a  ]>i(M'e  of  salt  herring  for  Biddy  from  her  own 
not  too  ])lenliful  supper,  on  the  grounds  of  her  being  af- 
liicted  with  such  an  "  onnatural  l)aste  "  of  a  brother.  But 
all  that  day  Joe  carried  about  with  him  a  haunting  dread 
which  lay  like  a  cold  hand  upon  his  heart. 

As  for  Biddy,  her  pronounced  invalidism  did  not  make 
much  ditTerence  in  the  sum  total  of  her  felicity  or  infe- 
licity, she  having  been  so  long  accustomed  to  feel  weak  and 
ill  tliat  the  cessation  of  her  wearisome  working-days  fully 
counterbalanced  any  increase  of  physical  suffering  for  the 
present  entailed  by  the  progress  of  her  disease,  while,  be- 
ing aware  that  tlie  neighbors  always  talked  about  wakes 
and  '•  Ijuryings  "  upon  the  slightest  hiymptom  of  indisposi- 
tion, she  was  shrewd  enough  to  pay  little  lieed  to  their  pre- 
dictions of  her  approaching  demise.  She  generally  had 
nearly  enough  to  eat,  and  a  scrap  of  fire  in  the  grate  when 
the  weather  was  very  cold,  for  Joe's  income  was  decidedly 
above  the  average  in  his  trade,  as  he  seemed  to  have  an 
instinct — peT-haj)s  inherited,  since  his  fatlier  had  picked 
cockles  before  hira — which  guided  him  unerringly  to  pro- 
lific mud-patches,  and  he  now  sometimes  brought  home 
Biddy's  basket  half  full  in  addition  to  his  own.  Yet,  not- 
withstanding her  cfnii]>aratively  affluent  circumstances, 
Biddy  was  not  unmolested  hy  visitants  from  that  tribe  of 
unsatisfied  desires  which  thrust  themselves,  by  hook  or  by 
crook,  into  almost  every  lot,  under  widely  varying  shapes 
infleed,  but  always  preserving  the  tril)al  characteristic  of 
keeping  in  sight  and  out  of  reach. 

There  is  a  kind  of  i-onnd,  tlat  flour  cake,  often  to  be  seen 
in  bakers'  windows  of  the  humk'ler  sort,  with  smooth  upper 
and  under  crusts,  between  which  the  softer  d(mgli,  riclily 
yellowed  with  a])undant  soda  and  strongly  flavored  but- 
terine.  seems  to  bulge  out  in  its  exuberance,  like  the  pulp 
of  an  over-rix)ened  fruit.    Thej^e  cakes  are  about  five  inches 


JANE    BARLOW.  107 

in  diameter  and  one  inch  in  thickness,  and  they  cost  three- 
half  i)ence  apiece,  so  that  they  are  rather  an  expensive 
form  of  bakement.  Yet  it  happened  that  durinji;  a  short 
period  of  Biddy's  childhood  they  liad  been  a  luxury  which 
she  enjoyed  witli  comparative  frequency,  the  family  being 
acquainted  with  a  baker  in  a  small  way,  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  pay  for  pints  of  cockles  in  kind,  often  with  an 
unsaleable  stale  cake  of  the  above  description,  to  a  share 
of  which  l>iddy,  in  her  capacity  of  youngest,  and  rather 
spoiled,  child,  generally  attained;  (Joe  never  did).  It 
was  now  many  a  year  since  a  violent  difference  of  opinion 
about  a  bad  fourpenny  bit  had  terminated  all  amicable 
relations  between  Peter  O'Eourke  and  the  Murphy  fam- 
ily; but  liiddy  retained  a  fond  recollection  of  those  no 
longer  fortlicoiiiing  dainties,  and  v»'ith  her  failing  health 
tlicre  had  gro'.xii  upon  her  an  ever  stronger  craving  to  taste 
of  them  again.  This  craving  had  of  late  been  augmented  bv 
the  circumstances  that  a  good-natured  ne'er-do-weel  neigh- 
bor had  one  evening  shared  such  a  cake  with  her,  and  since 
then  she  had  often  talked  of  the  ''  iligant  tay  "  she  had  had 
on  that  occasion,  confidently  avowing  her  belief,  that  if 
vShe  could  always  get  the  like  she  would  soon  be  "  as  sthroug 
as  iver  she  was  in  her  born  days." 

Joe  Murphy  listened  silently  to  these  remarks,  which 
Biddy  made  out  of  sheer  querulousness,  having  no  ulterior 
motive  or  expectation,  and  the  longer  he  listened  the  more 
intensely  he  wished  that  he  could  get  his  sister  what  she 
wanted.  But  the  thing  seemed  to  be  altogether  impossi- 
ble. Three-halfpence  was  more  than  he  could  afford — that 
is  to  say,  more  than  he  had — to  spend  on  one  of  Biddy's 
meals,  exclusive  of  the  indispensable  cup  of  tay,  and  he 
knew  besides  that  a  single  cake  would  not  satisfy  her,  as 
her  appetite  was  very  inconveniently  large.  How  were  the 
necessary  pennies  to  be  acquired?  The  plan  of  foregoing 
his  own  supper  would  not  answer.  This  he  knew  by  ex- 
perience, for  v.hen  one  morning  during  her  stay  in  hospital 
he  had  gone  without  his  breakfast  to  huy  her  some  orange-'^, 
he  had  felt  so  "  rael  quare  "  all  the  day  that  his  cockle- 
picking  had  fared  but  badly,  and  he  had  brought  home 
his  basket  only  half-filled.  So  the  oranges  could  not  be 
bought  after  all,  and  Biddy  had  said  that  she  supposed  he 
had  gone  off  on  the  spree  and  spent  his  money  drinking 


108  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

boranse  l»er  bjuk  was  turnod.  Joe  was  not  a  man  of  much 
resource,  and  several  weeks  went  by  before  his  brain 
exco<ritated  another  exi)edi('nt. 

These  ('Oikh'-])ickers  are  in  thc^  habit  of  pati'ouizing-  the 
railway  line  between  Dublin  and  llowth,  some  of  tlie  inter- 
mediate stations  on  which  are  situated  within  a  conven- 
ient distance  of  theii-  tishin/^-iiTounds.  The  most  fashion- 
able thini::  to  do  is  to  walk  out  from  Dublin  a  distance  of  six 
or  seven  miles,  paddle  in  the  mud  until  interrupted  by 
ilarkness  or  the  ri'turuini;  tide,  and  then  convey  your  heavy 
basket  to  Ballvhov  station,  a  mile  or  two  nearer  town. 
There  the  rujxged  band  ma}'  often  be  seen  crouching  be- 
side their  baskets  on  the  little  platform,  apparently  well 
content,  after  their  day's  wading,  with  a  seat  upon  firm, 
and  coiiiparatively  dry,  ground.  Tlieir  third-class  tickets 
cost  them  ''  thruppence,-'  a  large  percentage  on  the  day's 
gains;  and  though  a  cockle-picker  does  occasionally  expend 
five  pence  on  a  return  ticket,  and  travel  luxuriously  both 
ways,  such  instances  of  extravagance  are  extremely  rare. 
Now  it  suddenly  occurred  to  Joe  that  if  he  woyq  to  walk 
home  instead  of  going  by  train  he  would  straightway  find 
himself  in  possession  of  the  threepence  requisite  for  the 
purchase  of  those  coveted  cakes.  "  Bedad,  now,  it 's  a 
quare  silwol^uirn^  I  am  not  ha'  thouglit  of  it  liefore,"  he  said 
to  liimsclf,  as  he  lay  huddled  upon  liis  straw  bed — for  the 
idea  had  come  to  him  in  the  night — "  but  thramp  it  I  will 
a'  ]\l()nday  as  sure  as  I  'm  a  sinner."  And  for  once  in  his 
life  he  reflected  with  regret  that,  the  morrow  being  Sunday, 
he  could  not  immediately  carry  out  his  plan.  TJiere  was 
nothing  intrinsi(  ally  attractive,  certainly,  in  the  prospect 
of  an  additional  five  miles'  trudge,  heavily  laden;  but 
his  one-idead  mind  was  bent  rather  on  picturing  Biddy's 
delight  at  the  unexpected  treat,  than  on  the  lengthening 
vistas  of  the  bleak  Dublin  road;  and  he  went  to  sleep  with 
an  imjiression  that  a  piece  of  good  luck  had  befallen  him. 

The  Monday  following  this  happy  inspiration  of  Joe's 
was  a  most  di-eai-v  Xovcntber  morning.  All  day  a  frosty 
sea-fog  drifted  about  the  coast,  blotting  out  the  delicate 
blue  sweep  of  the  Dublin  mountains,  and  blurring  even 
the  bolder  jnirple  of  Ilowth's  less  distant  slopes.  Chilly, 
drenching  showers  ]dashed  by  in  swift  succession,  and 
when,  warned  by  the  early  darkness,  Joe  and  his  compan- 

1  Sthookaiim,  a  stocky-built  fellow. 


JANE    BARLOW.  109 

ions  turned  their  faces  towards  the  shin^l}-  lane  which  led 
up  from  the  beach,  they  were  scarcely  less  damp  and  cold, 
and  probably  far  more  paiufully  alive  to  their  condition, 
tlian  their  undemonstrative  stock-in-trade.  It  must  be  con- 
fessed tliat  Joe  had  by  this  time  be<;un  to  take  a  somewhat 
faint-Iiearted  view  of  his  homeward  journey.  He  could  not 
refrain  from  wistfully  contrasting'  the  ten  minutes'  smooth, 
effortless  transit  in  tiie  li«>hted  weather-proof  railway-car- 
riaj^e  with  the  loni;  hour  and  more  of  toilsome  plodding 
throuj^h  darkness,  cold,  and  wet  which  his  new  resolve 
now  destined  for  him.  Still,  that  resolve  continued  to 
hold  good.  Before  the  brilliant  anticipation  of  how  Biddy 
would  smack  her  lips  over  her  supper  that  night — for  I 
must  admit  the  alienating  fact  that  she  was  prone  to  this 
inarticulate  mode  of  expressing  her  satisfaction  with  her 
bill  of  fare — all  his  forecastiugs  of  personal  discomfort 
melted  into  insignificance,  as  thin  clouds  melt  in  their  pas- 
sage across  the  crystal  disk  of  the  full  moon.  Nor  was  that 
brightness  extinguished,  albeit  somewhat  dimmed,  by  the 
denser  texture  of  the  most  serious  foreboding  which  he 
entertained  in  connection  with  his  impending  lonely 
tramp.  This  was  the  reflection  that  he  would  have  to 
traverse  a  certain  tree-shadowed  bit  of  road  a  mile  beyond 
Ballyhoy,  which  is  commonh^  reported  to  be  "  walked  " 
after  nightfall  by  a  headless  ghost,  and  is  consequently  in 
evil  repute  among  less  abnornmlly  constituted  foot-passen- 
gers. Joe  was  a  firm  believer  in  this  gruesome  specter,  le- 
gends of  which  he  had  heard  from  his  earliest  days;  and 
now,  as  he  made  his  wav  towards  the  station  amid  the 
deepening  dusk,  he  felt  keenly  that  the  presence  of  a  hu- 
man fellow-traveler  would  immensely  diminish  the  terrors 
of  his  approach  to  its  ill-omened  haunts.  With  a  fond 
hope,  therefore,  of  securing  such  a  companion,  he  took  oc- 
casion to  remark  several  times  in  a  loud  tone  of  voice, 
meant  for  the  information  of  the  company  at  large,  "  I  'm 
not  for  the  thrain  to-night — I  'm  goin'  to  thramp  it.^'  But 
Joe's  temper  and  conversational  powers  were  not  of  a 
quality  calculated  to  make  the  charms  of  his  society  an 
incentive  to  disagreeable  exertion,  and  nobody  showed  au}' 
disposition  to  imiiate  his  frugal  example.  So  he  tried  the 
effect  of  a  more  particular  announcement,  and  said  to  his 
nearest  neighbor,  "  Look-a,  Dan,  I  'm  going  to  thramp  it 


no  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

to-iiijiht."  l>ut  Dan  only  ii;mnted  in  reply,  and  Joe  per- 
ceived that  he  mnst  make  up  his  mind  to  a  solitary  journey. 

It  was  not  without  considerable  heart-sinkiiii!;  that  he 
saw  his  comrades  turn  nj)  the  hill  to  the  station,  renmrk- 
iuij;:  amoui;-  themselves,  '*  what  an  ould  nay<;nr  Joe  Alurphy 
was,  and  he  wid  a  couple  o'  quarts  more  cockles  in  his 
baskit  than  any  of  thim  had  ";  while  he  went  on  to  face  the 
certain  ills  of  piercin<»-  northwester  and  the  possible  perils 
of  a  spectral  encounter.  These  last,  however,  remained 
l)urely  imaiiinary,  and  he  experienced  nothin^j:  worse  than 
bodily  disconifort.  The  bitter  blasts  hurtle<l  to  meet  him 
with  many  a  sta.u';erinj>-  rebutf ;  the  intermittent  rain  came 
down  in  drenching-  dashes,  so  that  as  he  drew  near  his  goal 
the  yellow  glare  of  the  lamps  was  reflected  in  swimming 
Hags  and  dancing  puddles;  but  chilled  and  dripping  though 
he  was,  he  felt  himself  to  be  a  ])roud  and  hai)i)y  ni'in  a«  he 
entered  the  dirty  little  baker's  shop  which  he  had  seen 
with  his  mind's  eye  all  the  afternoon.  His  own  keen  hun- 
ger made  the  smell  of  the  newly  baked  bread  seem  very 
delicious,  and  as  he  carefully  stowed  away  two  delicately 
browned,  plumply  swelling  c;dces  in  a  corner  of  his  nov/ 
emptied  l)asket — for  he  had  paid  a  preliminary  visit  to  a 
lishmonger — he  grinned  in  a  diabolically  hideous,  satyr- 
like fashion  over  the  thought  of  Biddy's  delighted  surprise. 

lie  then  betook  himself  farther  down  the  lane  to  a  still 
huml)ler  establishment,  where  he  and  others  of  his  trade 
were  in  the  ha])it  of  procui-ing  the  materials  for  their  even- 
ing meal.  Here  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  ]Mrs.  Kelly,  the 
j)roprietrix,  had  reserved  for  him  what  is  known  as  a 
"scrap  supper,"  this  being  considered  an  especially  profit- 
able investment  of  twopence  for  any  one  who  does  not  ob- 
ject to  a  sliglitly  heterogeneous  combination  of  ingredients. 
To-night  the  l)ig  tin  bowi,  tlie  use  of  whicii  was  inclinled 
in  the  i)argain,  contained  one  layer  of  cold  pease-pudding, 
and  another  of  cabbage,  which,  as  Mrs.  Kelly  was  careful 
to  point  out,  liad  enjoyed  th.e  ])rivilege  of  being  boiled  in 
company  with  a  piece  of  bacon;  also  some  odds  and  ends 
of  sausage  and  sheep's  liver,  and  half  a  fried  herring,  the 
whole  compound  being  moistened  witii  a  greasy  l>i'otli  of 
undefinefl  antece<lents.  This,  in  Joe's  oj)inion,  would  fur- 
nisli  a  positively  luxurious  repast;  and  he  started,  v\ell 
content   with   his  purchases,   to   thread   the  lab^Tinth   of 


JANE    BARLOW.  Ill 

slums  and  alleys  which  lay  between  hiir  and  the  back 
kitchen  where  he  resided,  lie  had  spent  his  last  penny — 
Saturday's  "  rint  "  and  Sunday's  idh-ness  having;  as  usual, 
left  the  an-ears  to  be  paid  oil"  out  of  [Monday's  earnings; 
but  that  circumstance  did  not  diminish  his  satisfaction,  a 
consciousness  of  casli  in  hand  being  by  no  means  essential 
to  his  peace  of  mind. 

He  was  coming  very  near  his  journey's  end,  when  the 
onset  of  a  peculiarly  vehement  shower  made  him  uneasy 
about  the  safety  of  Iiis  precious  cakes.  So  he  paused  where 
tlie  lights  of  a  small  public-house  flared  out  a  bright  circle 
on  the  surrounding  darkness,  and  determined  that  he 
v.ould  transfer  the  parcel  to  his  pocket — a  most  disastrous 
measure  of  precaution,  as  the  event  proved.  For  while  he 
was  in  the  very  act  of  hoisting  down  his  basket  from  his 
shoulder,  a  man  came  reeling  out  of  the  tavern  and  stag- 
gered heavily'  against  him,  with  the  result  that  his  basket, 
being  just  then  poised  in  a  state  of  unstable  equilibrium, 
swung  suddenly  sideways  with  a  violent  jerk,  strewing  all 
its  contents  upon  the  sloppy  ground.  The  bowl  fell,  clang- 
ing stridently  upon  the  pavement,  whence  it  rebounded 
into  a  deep  pool  of  slush  which  stretched  beside  the  curb- 
stone, and  there  it  lay  bottom  upward,  half-submerged. 
The  cal:es  slipped  out  of  their  loose  paper  wrap,  one  of 
them  foIiov\ing  the  bowl  into  those  murky  depths,  which 
swallowed  it  whole  with  a  single  ''  plop,"  whilst  the  other 
went  skipping  plaj'^fully  for  some  distance  over  the  filthy 
flags,  until  its  career  was  checked  by  its  collision  with  an 
obtruding  lamp-post.  Kever  was  a  stroke  of  calamity 
more  swiftly  dealt.  Before  Joe  well  knew  what  had  be- 
fallen him,  all  his  cherished  hopes  had  gone,  like  the 
wretched  Ophelia,  to  a  muddy  death. 

It  would  be  quite  impossible  to  record  in  these  pages  the 
utterances  to  which  Joe  Murphy  gave  vent  as  the  full  reali- 
zation of  the  catastrophe  burst  upon  him.  But  the  worst 
of  it  was  that  neither  he  nor  the  tipsy  author  of  the  mis- 
chief seemed  disposed  to  stop  short  at  mere  language,  how- 
ever strong;  and  a  livcdy  little  scuffle  was  beginning,  amid 
a  ring  of  pleasurably  excited  onlookers,  vvdien  the  unwel- 
come arrival  of  a  tall,  soldier-like  policeman  caused  a  dis- 
appointing suspension  of  hostilities.  And  novr  for  a  few 
moments  it  appeared  not  improbable  that  Joe's  misfor- 


Ill'  IRIt^H    LITERATURE. 

times  mi2:ht  (.'ulminate  in  ,a  night  passed  at  the  nearest 
lotkiip.  This  danger,  however,  soon  blew  over.  Tlie  ob- 
vious intoxication  of  Joe's  antagonist  rendered  him  a 
priori  an  object  of  suspicion,  and  Constable  27C  was,  more- 
over, sufiicientlv  familiar  with  the  wavs  and  means  of  those 
whom  he  met  on  that  beat  to  understand  how  serious  a 
loss,  and  what  aiiii)le  grounds  of  i)rovocation,  might  be  rep- 
resented by  tiiat  inverted  bowl  and  its  ruined  contents.  So 
he  presently  marched  oil'  briskly  with  his  erratically  mov- 
ing charge,  the  crowd  melted  away  as  rapidly  as  it  had 
gathered,  and  Joe  was  left  to  his  own  forlorn  devices. 

It  was  a  miserable  scene.  The  lurid  gas  gleams  shone, 
through  the  thick  slanting  raindrops,  on  tall  black  walls 
of  ruinous,  sinist(T-looking  houses,  on  the  miry  straits 
which  they  bounded,  and  on — most  piteous  spectacle  of 
all — the  ragged  wretch  who  was  half  crying  over  his  beg- 
garly loss,  as  he  groped  about  the  streaming  pavement, 
seeking  whether  any  remnant  of  his  goods  might  perchance 
liave  remained  uninjured.  His  own  supper  was  past  pray- 
ing fen- — engulfed  irretrievably  in  the  semi-li(iuid  slush, 
never  again  to  emerge  as  food  for  man  or  beast.  But  this 
afflicted  him  far  less  than  the  thought  of  the  disappoint- 
ment in  store  for  Biddy,  she  who  wae  to  have  fared  so 
sumi)tuously,  and  who  must  now  go  to  bed  hungrier  than 
usual,  having  supped  on  a  mere  crust  of  dry  bread.  With 
a  faint  Ihiiter  of  hope  he  picked  up  the  cake  which  had 
rolled  along  the  footpath,  and  anxiously  examined  into  its 
condition.  It  had  evidently  been  trodden  upon,  and  was 
grievousl}^  mud-begrimed,  but  he  imagined  that  the  mois- 
ture might  possibly  not  have  soaked  far  into  its  interior, 
and  with  clumsy,  cold-benund)ed  fingers  he  began  to  i)eel  off 
the  outer  crust,  only  to  find  that  little,  if  any,  of  the  dough 
was  in  such  a  state  as  to  be  edible  by  even  a  most  un- 
fastidious  feeder.  And  in  grim  despair  he  tossed  it  with 
the  empty  bowl  into  his  basket,  and  went  ruefully  on  his 
way;  for  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  longer  linger- 
ing, and  he  was  already  much  later  than  his  wont. 

But  how  different  a  home-coming  it  was  from  that  to 
which  he  had  been  looking  forward  all  day!  Nothing  but 
misery  could  now  await  him.  He  knew  well  how  it  would 
be — how  liiddy  would  storm  and  scold  at  him  as  long  as  she 
had  any  breath  left,  and  then  would  cough  and  cough  till 


JANE   BARLOW.  113 

it  seemed  as  if  her  j^aunt  frame  must  be  shaken  to  pieces. 
And  then  the  sound  of  that  couj^h  always  went  to  liis  heart 
with  a  sickening  pang.  This  dreary  foreknowledge  did  not 
quicken  his  steps,  and  when  he  had  descended  into  the 
long  underground  passage,  almost  as  filthy  as  the  street, 
which  contained  the  door  of  his  apartment,  he  walked 
slower  and  slower,  screwing  up  courage  to  appear  with  his 
unwelcome  tidings.  The  next  moment  he  heard  Biddy's 
thin  cracked  voice  call  sharply:  "  Joe,  Joe;  is  it  comin'  in 
to-night  you'd  be  at  all,  at  all,  and  it  goin'  on  for  eight 
o'clock?  "  and  he  felt  that  he  must  delay  no  longer.  But 
wiieu  he  opened  the  door,  it  wa,s  upon  a  sight  which  made 
him  stand  still  and  gape. 

He  had  expected  to  find  nothing  more  brilliant  than  the 
darkness  visible,  created  by  a  farthing  dip.  Yet  here  was 
the  room  all  in  a  glow  of  light,  proceeding,  for  the  most 
part,  from  a  great  turf  fire  which  burned  riiddily  on  the 
hearth,  whilst  the  atmosphere  was  pervaded  by  the  unctu- 
ous odors  of  some  most  savory  cooking.  The  rickety  deal 
table,  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  fire,  was  covered  with  eat- 
ables— a  big  loaf,  a  Avedge  of  cheese,  a  goodly  lump  of 
bacon,  a  dish  of  fried  potatoes,  and,  putting  the  last  touch 
to  his  incredulous  bewilderment,  what  seemed  to  him  to 
be  dozens  of  cakes,  the  exact  counterparts  of  those  which 
had  been  causing  him  so  much  perturbation.  And  there 
was  Biddy  sitting  comfortably  near  the  warm  blaze  on 
their  one  decrepit  chair,  and  munching  busily — indeed, 
her  mouth  was  so  full  that  she  could  say  nothing  intelli- 
gible for  quite  half  a  minute  after  his  entrance. 

If  Joe  had  ever  heard  of  the  millennium,  he  would  now 
certainly  have  thought  that  he  had  walked  straight  into  it. 
But  he  never  had  heard  of  it,  nor  did  he  find  his  faculties 
at  all  equal  to  the  task  of  accounting  for  the  phenomenon. 
The  heart  of  the  mj'stery,  however,  was  not  far  to  seek  or 
difiicult  to  pluck  out.  Pat  Murphy,  a  long-absent  member 
of  the  family,  concerning  whose  whereabouts  and  walk  in 
life  his  brother  and  sister  had  dwelt  in  an  ignorance  which 
for  certain  reasons  tended  towards  the  belief  that  he  was 
sojourning  in  one  of  her  iMajesty's  prisons,  had  suddenly 
returned  from  a  spell  of  seafaring,  and  to-night's  extraor- 
dinary outbreak  of  profusion  was  due  to  his  open-handed 
prodigality  of  recently  acquired  pay. 

8 


114  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

"  Woll,  Joe,  aiivl  lu)\v  's  yourself?  "  lie  said,  now  in  liicjli 
j^ood-hiinior,  lilanciuj;  roiiiul  at  his  stupolied  ln'otlicr,  lint 
still  stoojuiig  over  the  steainiug  pan  iu  which  he  was  car- 
rying on  some  culinary  operations.  "  Take  a  dhrop  of  por- 
ther  to  put  a  bit  of  warmth  iu  ye.  These  saAvseugers  '11  be 
done  iligant  in  a  couple  of  niinyits.'" 

And  liere  it  will  be  well  for  us  to  take  our  leave  of  Joe 
Muri)hv.  \\'e  i!ii<;ht  follow  the  course  of  his  fortunes  for 
many  a  long  day  before  we  should  light  on  so  auspicious  a 
moment.  Let  us  hasten  away  while  the  savor  of  Pat's 
"  sawsengers  "  still  haiigs  about  the  warm  room  and  before 
the  last  turf-sod  has  smoldered  from  throbbing  scarlet 
embers  to  ghostly  lilm-Y\  kite  ashes. 


MISTHER  DENIS'S  RETURN. 

From  '  Th'  Ould  Master.' 

An"  the  thought  of  us  each  was  the  boat;  oeh,  however 'd  she 

stand  it  at  all, 
If  she'd  started  an  hour  or  two  back,  an'  been  caught  in  the 

thick  o'  that  squall? 
Sure,  it's  lost  she  was,  barrin'  I>y  luck  il  f^o  chanced  she'd  run 

under  the  lee 
O'  Point  Bertra.gh  or  Ii'ish  Lonane;  an'  'twas  liker  tlie  cra- 

tliurs  ud  b(^ 
r'rossin'  yonder  the  open,  wid  never  a  shelter,  but  waves  far  an' 

wide 
Kowlin'  one  on  the  other  till  ye 'd  seem  at  tlse  feet  of  a  mad 

mountainside. 
An'  tlie  Ijest  we  could  hojie  v/ax  they  'd  seen  that  the  weather  'd 

be  turnin'  out  rpiaie. 
An'  might,  happen,  ha'  settled  they  wouldn't  come  over,  but 

bide  where  they  weic 
Yet,  liegorrah !  'twould  be  the  quare  weather  entirely,  as  some 

of  us  said. 
That  'nd  put  Misther  Denis  off  aught  that  he'd  fairly  tuk  into 

ills  Iicnd. 
Tliin  Tim  Duigan  sez :  "  .\rrah.  lads,  v/hist!  aflher  sailin'  thro' 

oce;ins  o'  say 
Don't   ff'II  uir  he's  naught  better  to  do  th.'in  get  dhro\vne<l  in 

our  dhrop  of  a  bay." 


JANE    BARLOW.  115 

An'  the  words  wei-o  scarce  out  (il"  his  mouth,  wliin  hard  l)y, 

thro'  a  dhrilt  o'  the  huze, 
The  ouhl  boat  we  beheld  sthrivin'  on  iu  the  storm — och,  the 

yell  we  did  raise! 
An'  it  "s  little  we  yelled  for,  bedad!  for  the  next  instant  there 

under  our  eyes, 
Not  a  couple  o'  perch  from  the  pier-end,  th'  ould  baste  she 

must  take  an'  capsize. 


Och !  small  blame  to  thim  all  if  we  'd  never  seen  sight  of  a  one 

o'  thini  more, 
Wid  the  waves  thumpin'  thuds  where  they  fell,  like  the  butt- 
ends  o'  beams  on  a  door; 
An'  the  black  hollows  whirlin'  between,  an'  the  dhrift  flyin' 

over  thim  thick, 
'S  if  the  Divil  had  melted  down  Hell,  an'  was  stirrin'  it  up  wid 

a  stick. 
But  it  happint  the  wave  that  they  met  wid  was  flounderin' 

sthraight  to  the  strand. 
An'  just  swep'  thim  up  nate  on  its  way,  till  it  set  thim  down 

safe  where  the  sand 
Isn't  wet  twice  a  twelvemonth,  no  hurt  on  thim  all,  on'y  dhrip- 

pin'  an'  dazed. 
And  one  coiJie  to  his  feet  nigh  me  door,  where  that  morniu'  me 

heifer  had  grazed. 
An'  bedad!  'twas  himself.  Mister  Denis,  stood  blinkin'  and 

shakin'  the  wet 
From  his  hair;    ''Hullo,  Connor!"  sez  he,  ''is  it  you,  man?" 

He  'd  never  forget 
One  he  'd  known.     But  I  'd  hardly  got  hould  of  his  hand,  an' 

was  wishin'  him  joy. 
Whin,  worse  luck,  he  looked  round  an'  he  spied  Widdy  Sulli- 
van's imp  of  a  boy 
That  a  wave  had  tuk  off  of  his  feet,  an'  was  floatin'  away  from 

the  beach. 
An'  he  screechin'  an'  sthretchin'  his  arms  to  be  saved,  but  no 

help  was  in  reach. 
An'  as  soon  as  the  young  master  he  seen  it,  he  caught  his  hand 

out  o'  me  own  : 
"Now,  stand  clear,  man,"  sez  he;  "would  ye  have  me  be  ln,vin' 

the  lad  there  to  dhrown  ?  " 
An'  wid  that  he  throd  knee-deep  in  foam-swirls.     Ochone!  but 

he  gev  us  the  slip, 
Kuniiin'  sheer  down  the  black  throat  o'  Death,  an'  he  just 

afther  'scainn'  its  grip; 


IIG  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

For  the  wild  says  oome  flappiii'  an'  boomin'  an'  smotherin'  o'er 

him,  an'  back 
In  tho  hiji  o'  tlieir  ragin'  they  swep'  him  as  light  as  a  wisp  o' 

brown  wrack. 
An'  they  pouniliu'  the  rocks  like  sledge-hammers,  an'  clatterin' 

the  shingle  like  chains; 
Ne'er  the  live  sowl    they'd   let   from  their  hould  till   they'd 

choked  him  or  bet  out  his  brains, 
Sure  an'  certin.     And  in  swung  a  wave  wid  its  welthers  o' 

wather  that  lept 
Wid  the  roar  of  a  lion  as  it  come,  an'  hissed  low  like  a  snake 

as  it  crept 
To  its  edge,  where  it  tossed  thim,  the  both  o'  them.     Och !  an' 

the  little  spalpeen 
Misther  Denis  had  gript  be  the  collar,  he  jumjied  up  the  first 

thing  wo  seen. 
While  young  master  lay  still — not  a  stir — he  was  stunned  wid 

a  crack  on  the  head — 
J  1st  a  flutter  o'  life  at  his  heart — but  it  's  kilt  be  was,  kilt  on 

us  dead. 


THE  FLITTING  OF  THE  FAIRIES. 

From  the  '  End  of  Elflntown.' 


Then  Oberon  spake  the  word  of  might 
Tliat  set  the  enchanted  cars  in  sight; 
But  love  I  lack,  to  tell  aright 

Where  these  had  waited  hidden. 
Perchance  the  clear  airs  round  us  rolled 
In  secret  cells  did  them  enfold. 
Like  evening  dew  that  none  behold 

Till  to  the  sward  't  is  slidden. 

And  who  ran  say  what  wizardise 

Had  fashioned  them  in  marvelous  wise, 

And  given  them  j»ower  to  stooj»  and  rise 

More  high   than  thought  hath  traveled? 
Roiiifnvhaf  of  clond  their  frames  consist, 
But  more  of  meteor's  luminous  mist, 
All  girt  with  strands  of  seven-hued  twist 

From  rainbow's  verge  unraveled. 


JANE   BARLOW.  Ill 

'T  is  said,  and  I  believe  it  well, 
That  whoso  mounts  their  magic  selle. 
Goes,  if  he  list,  invisi])le 

lieneath  the  broadest  noonlight; 
That  virtue  comes  of  Faery-fern, 
Lone-lived  where  hill-slopes  starward  turn 
Thro'  fi'oi-e  night  hours  that  bid  it  burn 

Flame-irouded  in  the  moonlight; 

For  this  holds  true — too  true,  alas! 
The  sky  that  eve  was  clear  as  glass. 
Yet  no  man  saw  the  Faeries  pass 

Where  azure  pathways  glisten; 
And  true  it  is— too  true,  ay  me — 
That  nevermore  on  lawn  or  lea 
Shall  mortal  man  a  Faery  see, 

Though  long  he  look  and  listen. 

Only  the  twilit  woods  among 

A  wild-winged  breeze  hath  sometimes  flung 

Dim  echoes  borne  from  strains  soft-sung 

Hevond  skv-reaches  hollow; 
Still  further,  fainter  up  the  height. 
Receding  past  the  deep-zoned  night — 
Far  chant  of  Fays  who  lead  that  flight. 

Faint  call  of  Fays  who  follow : 

(Fays  following.)     Red-rose  mists  o'erdrift 

Moth-moon's  glimmering  white. 
Lit  by  sheen-silled  west 
Barred  with  fiery  bar; 
Fleeting,  following  swift. 
Whither  across  the  night 
Seek  we  bourne  of  rest? 

(Fays  leacling.)     Afar. 

(Fays  folloicing.)     Vailing  crest  on  crest 

Down  the  shadowy  height. 
Earth  with  shores  and  seas 
Dropt,  a  dwindling  gleam. 
Dusk,  and  bowery  nest, 
Dawn,  and  dells  dew-bright. 
What  shall  bide  of  these? 

(Fays  lea  fling,)     A  dream. 


lis  IRISH    LITERATI  Ri:. 

{Fays  foUoiting.)     Fled,  ah!  fled,  our  sight. 

Yea,  but  thrills  of  fire 
Throbbed  adcnvn  yon  deep, 
Faint  and  very  far 
Who  shall  rede  aright? 
Sa}',  what  wafts  ns  nigher, 
Reckoning  up  the  steep? 

{Fays  IcafJing.)     A  star. 

{Fays  foUoicinr/.)     List,  a  star!  a  star! 

Oh,  onr  goal  of  light! 
Yet  the  wingod  shades  sweep, 
Yet  the  void  looms  vast. 
"NA'enry  onr  M'ild  dreams  are: 
Whon  shall  cease  our  flight 
Soft  on  shores  of  sleep? 

{Fays  leading.)     At  last. 


EATON    bTANNAKD    BARRETT. 
(1785—1820.) 

Eaton  Stannard  Barrett  was  born  in  Cork  in  1785,  and  was 
graduated  A.B.  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  Here  his  attractive 
manners  and  genial  disposition  won  him  the  friendship  and  esteem 
of  his  fiiUow-students.  In  1805  he  entered  as  a  law  student  in  the 
Middle  Temple,  London.  He  however  ultin:ately  forsook  law  for 
literature.  His  first  satirical  poem,  which  ridiculed  the  ministry  in 
power  in  1807,  gave  it  the  name  of  '  The  Ministry  of  All  the  Talents,' 
by  which  it  is  known  in  history.  Its  success  encouraged  him  to 
persevere,  and  in  1808  he  brought  out  a  satirical  newspaper,  entitled 
The  Comet.  His  '  Woman,'  v/itli  other  poems  and  humorous 
effusions,  followed;  all  attracted  considerable  attention,  and  proved 
the  talent  and  culture  of  the  author.  The  satire  of  '  All  the  Tal(;nts,' 
which  delighted  the  town  in  its  day,  now  misses  fire  with  all  but 
the  close  student  of  history;  for  others  the  point  of  the  allusions  is 
lost. 

A  book  which  in  some  ways  reminds  one  of  Bret  Harte's  famous 
'Sensation  Novels  Condensed  '  still  lives  :  'The  Heroine,  or  Adven- 
tures of  Cherubina,'  burlesquing  the  novels  in  vogue  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  doubtless  did  much  to  kill  the 
type  of  fiction,  full  of  unreality  and  affectation,  which  did  so  much 
harm  in  those  days.  He  wrote  other  burlesque  novels,  plays,  and 
poems,  and  could  write  well  on  serious  topics.  His  last  work  was  a 
comedy  entitled  '  Mv  Wife  !  What  Wife  ? '  which  appeared  in  1815. 
He  died  March  20,  1820. 


MODERN    MEDI2EVALISM. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  Blow,  blow,  thou  wintry  wind." 

— Shakespeare. 
"Blow,  breeze,  blow." 
— Moore. 

It  was  on  a  nocturnal  night  in  autumnal  October;  the 
wet  rain  fell  in  li(|uid  quantities,  and  the  thunder  rolled 
in  an  awful  and  Ossiauly  manner.  The  lowly  but  peaceful 
inhabitants  of  a  small  but  decent  cottage  were  just  sitting 
down  to  their  homely  but  wholesome  supper,  when  a  loud 
knocking  at  the  door  alarmed  them.  Bertram  armed  him- 
self with  a  ladle.     "  Lnck-a-daisy !  "  cried  old  Margueri- 

119 


120  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

tone,  ami  little  Billy  seized  the  favorable  moment  to  fill  his 
mouth  with  meat.     Innocent  fraud  I  happy  childhood! 

"  The  father's  luster  and  the  mother's  bloom." 

Bertram  then  opened  the  door,  when,  lo!  ]iale,  breath- 
less, dripping",  and  with  a  look  that  would  have  shocked  the 
Koyal  Humane  Society,  a  beautiful  female  tottered  into 
the  room.  "  Lack-a-daisy !  ma'am,"  said  Mar<>ueritone, 
"are  you  wet?"  "Wet?"  exclaimed  the  fair  uidcnown, 
wriniiing:  a  rivulet  of  rain  from  the  corner  of  her  robe; 
•*  O  ye  gods,  wet  I  "  ]\Iargueritone  felt  the  justice,  the  gen- 
tleness of  the  reproof,  and  turned  the  subject,  by  recom- 
mending a  glass  of  spirits. 

"  Spirit  of  my  sainted  sh-e." 

The  stranger  sipped,  shook  her  head,  and  fainted.  Her 
hair  was  long  and  dark,  and  the  bed  was  ready;  so  since  she 
si'cnis  in  distress,  we  will  leave  her  there  awhile,  lest  we 
should  betra}'  an  ignorance  of  the  world  in  appearing  not 
to  know  the  proper  time  for  deserting  people. 

On  the  rocky  summit  of  a  beetling  precipice,  whose  base 
was  lashed  by  the  angry  Atlantic,  stood  a  moated  and  tur- 
rcted  structure  called  II  Tastello  di  (Jrimgothico.  As  the 
northern  tower  had  remained  uninhabited  since  the  death 
of  its  late  lord,  Ilenriques  de  Violenci,  lights  and  figures 
were,  po7'  consequence^  observed  in  it  at  midnight.  Be- 
sides, the  black  eyebrows  of  the  present  baron  had  a  habit 
of  meeting  for  several  years,  and  qitchjue  fois,  he  paced 
the  picture-gal iery  with  a  hurried  step.  These  circum- 
stances cond)ii!('d,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  his  having 
committed  murder.  .  .  . 

CHAPTER  II. 

"Oh!" 

— Milton. 
"Ah!" 

— Pope. 

One  evening,  the  Baroness  de  Violenci,  having^  sprained 
her  leg  in  the  conijiosition  of  an  ecstatic  ode,  resolved  not 
to  go  to  Lady  I'euthesilea  liouge's  rout.  While  she  was 
Bitting  alone  at  a  plate  of  prawns,  the  footman  entered 


EATON    8TANNARIJ    BARRETT.  121 

witli  a  basket,  which  had  just  been  left  for  lier.  "  Lay  it 
down,  Jolin,"  said  she,  touching;  his  foreliead  with  her 
fork.  The  jiay-liearted  youn"-  feHow  did  as  he  was  desired 
and  capered  out  of  the  room.  Judiie  of  her  astonishment 
when  she  found,  on  openinj;-  it,  a  little  cherub  of  a  baby 
sleepinj*-  within.  An  oaken  cross,  with  "Hysterica"  in- 
scribed in  chalk,  was  appended  at  its  neck,  and  a  mark, 
like  a  bruised  <;()oseberry,  added  interest  to  its  elbow.  As 
she  and  her  lord  had  never  had  cliildren,  she  determined, 
sur  Ic  champ,  on  adoptin<>  the  pretty  Hysterica.  Fifteen 
years  did  this  worthy  woman  dedicate  to  the  progress  of 
her  little  charge ;  and  in  that  time  taught  her  every  mortal 
accomplishment.  Her  sigh,  particularl}^,  was  esteemed 
the  softest  in  Europe. 

But  the  stroke  of  death  is  inevitable;  come  it  must  at 
last,  and  neither  virtue  nor  wisdom  can  avoid  it  In  a 
word,  the  good  old  Baroness  died,  and  our  heroine  fell 
senseless  on  her  body. 

"  O  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen !  " 

But  it  is  now  time  to  describe  our  heroine.  As  Milton 
tells  us  that  Eve  w^as  "more  lovely  than  Pandora"  (an 
imaginary  lady  who  never  existed  but  in  the  brains  of 
poets),  so  do  we  declare,  and  are  ready  to  stake  our  lives, 
that  our  heroine  excelled  in  her  form  the  Timinitilidi, 
whom  no  man  ever  saw;  and  in  her  voice,  the  music  of 
the  splieres,  which  no  man  ever  heard.  Perhaps  her  face 
w^as  not  perfect;  but  it  was  more — it  was  interesting — it 
was  oval.  Her  eyes  were  of  the  real,  original  old  blue;  and 
her  lashes  of  the  best  silk.  You  forgot  the  thickness  of  her 
lips  in  the  casket  of  pearls  Avhich  they  enshrined;  and  the 
roses  of  York  and  Lancaster  were  united  in  her  cheek.  A 
nose  of  the  Grecian  order  surmounted  the  whole.  Such 
was  Hysterica. 

But,  alas!  misfortunes  are  often  gregarious,  like  sheep. 
For  one  night,  when  our  heroine  had  repaired  to  the 
chapel,  intending  to  drop  her  customary  tear  on  the  tomb 
of  her  sainted  benefactress,  she  heard  on  a  sudden, 

"  Oh,  horrid  horrible,  and  horridest  horror!  " 

the  distant  organ  peal  a  solemn  voluntary.  While  she  was 
preparing,  in  much  terror  and  astonishment,  to  accompany 


\-2-2  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

it  with  lior  voice,  four  lueu  in  masks  riisluMl  from  among 
some  tombs  and  bore  her  to  a  carriage,  which  instantly 
drove  oH"  with  the  whole  i)arty.  In  vain  she  sought  to 
st>f(en  lisem  by  swoons,  tears,  and  a  sim})le  little  ballad; 
they  sat  counting  murders  and  not  minding  her.  As  the 
blinds  of  the  carriage  were  closed  the  whole  Avay,  we  waive 
a  ilescription  of  tlie  country  v.hicli  they  traversed.  Besides, 
the  ]>rosi)ect  within  th.e  carriage  will  occupy  tlie  reader 
eiioui'h ;  for  in  one  of  the  villains  Ilvsterica  discovered — 
i\)unt  Stillettol  She  fainted.  On  the  second  da.y  tlie 
carriage  stop})ed  at  an  old  castle,  and  she  was  conveyed  in- 
to a  tapestried  apartment — in  which  rusty  daggers,  mol- 
dcring  bones,  and  ragged  palls  la.y  scattered  in  all  the  pro- 
fusion of  feudal  plenty — where  the  delicate  cj'eature  fell 
ill   of   an   inverted   eyelash,   caused   by   continual   w'eep- 


lUg. 


CHAPTER  III. 

*'  Sure  such  a  day  as  this  was  never  seen!  " 

— Thomas  TJiumb. 
"  The  day,  th'  important  day  ( " 

— Addison. 

"  0  giorno  felloe!  " 

— Italian. 

The  morning  of  the  happy  day  destined  to  unite  our  lovers 
was  ushered  into  the  world  with  a  blue  slcy,  and  the  ringing 
of  bells.  Maidens,  united  in  bonds  of  amity  and  artificial 
roses,  come  dancing  to  the  pipe  and  tabor;  while  groups 
of  children  and  chickens  add  hilarity  to  the  union  of  con- 
genial minds.  On  the  left  of  Ihc  viHage  ai-e  souic  ])lanta- 
tions  of  tufted  turnips;  on  the  right  a  dilapidated  dog- 
kennel 


"  With  venerable  grandeur  marks  the  scene," 

while    everywhere    the    delighted    eye    catches    monstrous 
mountains  and  minute  daisies.     In  a  word, 

"All  nature  wears  one  universal  grin." 

The  procession  now  set  forward  to  the  church.  The 
bride  was  habited  in  white  drajx'ry.  Ten  signs  of  the 
Zodiac,  woi-ked  in  spangles,  sparided  round  its  edge,  but 


EATON    STANNARD    BARRETT.  123 

Virgo  was  omitted  at  lier  desirCj  and  the  bridegroom  pro- 
posed to  dispense  with  Capricorn.  Sweet  delicacy!  Slie 
lield  a  pot  of  myrtle  in  her  hand,  and  wore  on  her  head 
a  small  ligIit(Hl  torch,  emblematical  of  Hymen.  .  .  .  The 
marriage  ceremony  passed  off  with  great  spirit,  and  the 
fond  bridegroom,  as  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  felt  how 
pure,  how  delicious  are  the  joys  of  virtue. 


MONTMORENCI   AND   CHERUBINA. 

From  '  The  Heroine.' 

This  morning,  soon  after  breakfast,  I  heard  a  gentle 
knocking  at  my  door,  and,  to  my  great  astonishment,  a 
figure,  cased  in  shining  armor,  entered.  Oh !  ye  conscious 
blushes;  it  was  my  Montmorenci !  A  plume  of  white 
feathers  nodded  on  his  helmet  and  neither  spear  nor  shield 
were  wanting.  "  I  come,"  cried  he,  bending  on  one  knee, 
and  pressing  my  hand  to  his  lips,  "  I  come  in  the  ancient 
armor  of  my  family  to  perform  my  promise  of  recounting 
to  you  the  melancholy  memoirs  of  my  life,"  "  My  lord," 
said  I,  "  rise  and  be  seated.  Cherubina  knows  how  to 
appreciate  the  honor  that  Montmorenci  confers."  He 
bowed;  and  having  laid  by  his  spear,  shield,  and  helmet 
he  placed  himself  beside  me  on  the  sofa,  and  began  his 
heart-rending  history. 

"  All  was  dark.  The  hurricane  howled,  the  hail  rattled, 
and  the  thunder  rolled.  Nature  was  convulsed,  and  the 
traveler  inconvenienced.  In  the  province  of  Languedoc 
stood  the  Gothic  castle  of  ^Montmorenci.  Before  it  ran  the 
Garonne,  and  behind  it  rose  the  Pyrenees,  whose  summits, 
exhibiting  awful  forms,  seen  and  lost  again,  as  the  partial 
vapors  rolled  along,  were  sometimes  barren,  and  gleamed 
througli  the  l)lue  tinge  of  air,  and  sometimes  frowned  with 
forests  of  gloomy  fir,  that  sv/ept  downward  to  their  base. 
'  My  lads,  are  your  carbines  charged,  and  your  daggers 
sharpened?'  whispered  Rinaldo,  with  his  plume  of  black 
feathers,  to  the  banditti,  in  their  long  cloaks.  '  If  they 
an't,'  said  Bernardo,  'by  St.  Jago,  we  might  load  our 
carbines  with  the  hail,  and  sharpen  our  daggers  against 


124  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

this  confounded  north-wind.'  '  The  wind  is  east-south- 
east,' said  Ugo.  At  this  moment  the  bell  of  Moutmorenei 
Castle  tolled  one.  The  sound  vibrated  throuj^h  the  long 
corridors,  the  spiral  staircases,  the  suites  of  tapestried 
apartments,  and  the  ears  of  the  personage  who  has  the 
honor  to  address  you.  Much  alarmed,  I  started  from  my 
couch,  which  was  of  exquisite  workmanship;  the  coverlet 
of  tlowered  gold,  and  the  canopy  of  white  velvet  painted 
over  with  jonquils  and  buttertlies  hj  Michael  Angelo.  But 
conceive  my  horror  when  I  l)eheld  my  chamber  tilled  with 
banditti  1  Snatching  my  falchion,  I  flew  to  the  armory 
for  my  coat  of  mail;  the  bravos  rushed  after  me,  but  I 
fought  and  dressed  and  dressed  and  fought,  till  I  had 
jierfectly  completed  my  unpleasing  toilet.  I  then  stood 
alone,  firm,  dignified,  collected,  and  only  fifteen  j^ears  of 
age. 

"  '  Alack!  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eye, 
Than  twenty  of  their  swords ' 

To  describe  the  horror  of  the  contest  that  followed  were 
beyond  the  pen  of  an  Anacreon.  In  short,  I  fought  till 
my  silver  skin  was  laced  with  my  golden  blood;  while  the 
bullets  flew  round  me,  thick  as  hail, 

"  '  And  whistled  as  they  -went  for  want  of  thought.' 

At  h'ugth  I  murdered  my  way  down  to  my  little  skiff, 
embarked  in  it,  and  arrived  at  this  island.  As  I  first 
touched  foot  on  its  chalky  beach,  '  Hail !  happy  land,' 
cried  I,  '  liail,  thrice  iiaill'  'There  is  no  hail  here,  sir,' 
said  a  chibl  running  l)y.  .  .  .  Nine  days  and  nights  I 
wandered  through  the  country,  the  rivulet  my  beverage, 
and  the  berry  my  repast;  the  turf  my  coucli,  and  the  sky 
my  cano])y."  "  Ah  I  "  interrupted  I,  "  how  much  you  must 
have  missed  the  canopy  of  white  velvet  painted  over  with 
jon(|uils  and  butterflies  I"  "  p]xtremely,"  said  he,  "for 
during  sixteen  long  yeais  I  had  not  a  roof  over  my  head — I 
w;is  an  itinerant  beggar!  One  snmnier's  day,  tlie  cattle  lay 
panting  un(b*r  the  broad  umbrage,  the  sun  had  burst  into 
an  immoderate  fit  of  splendor,  and  the  struggling  brook 
chided  the  matted  grass  for  obstructing  it.  I  sat  under  a 
hedge,  and  began  eating  wild  strawl»erries;  when  lo!  a 
form,  fiexile  as  the  flame  ascending  from  a  censer,  and 


EATON    STANNARD    BARRETT.  125 

unclulatir.<>'  witli  tlic  si^lis  of  a  dying  vestal,  flitted  inaiidi- 
bly  by  me,  nor  crushed  the  daisies  as  it  trod.  What  a  di- 
vinity! she  was  fr(»sli  as  the  Anadyomene  of  Apelles,  and 
beautiful  as  the  Gnidus  of  Praxiteles,  or  the  Helen  of 

Zeuxis,     Her  eyes  dipt  in  heaven's  own  hue "    "  Sir," 

said  I,  "  you  need  not  mind  her  eyes;  I  dare  say  they  were 
blue  enouiih.  But  pray,  who  was  this  immortal  doll  of 
yours?  "  ''  Who?  "  cried  he,  "  why,  who  but — shall  I  speak 
it?  who  but — the  Lady  Oherubina  de  WillougiidyI  !  I" 
"I!"  "You!"  "Ah!  :\[ontmorenci ! "  "Ah!  Cherubina! 
I  followed  you  with  cautious  steps,"  continued  he,  ''  till  I 
traced  you  into  your — you  had  a  garden,  had  you  not?  " 
"  Yes."  "  Into  your  garden.  I  thought  ten  thousand 
flowerets  would  liave  leapt  from  their  beds  to  offer  you  a 
nosegay.  But  the  age  of  gallantry  is  past,  that  of  mer- 
chants, placemen,  and  fortune-hunters  has  succeeded,  and 
the  glory  of  Cupid  is  extinguished  for  ever!  .  .  .  But 
wherefore,"  cried  he,  starting  from  his  seat,  "  wherefore 
talk  of  the  past?  Oh !  let  me  tell  you  of  the  present  and  of 
the  future.  Oh !  let  me  tell  you  how  dearly,  how  deeply, 
how  devotedly  I  love  you!"  "Love  me!"  cried  I,  giving 
such  a  start  as  the  nature  of  the  case  required.  "  My  Lord, 
this  is  so — really  now,  so — "  "  Pardon  this  abrupt 
avowal  of  iiij  unhappy  passion,"  said  he,  flinging  himself 
at  my  feet;  "fain  would  I  have  let  concealment,  like  a 
worm  in  the  bud,  feed  on  my  damask  cheek ;  but,  oh !  who 
could  resist  the  maddening  sight  of  so  much  beauty?  "  I 
remained  silent,  and,  with  the  elegant  embarrassment  of 
modesty,  cast  my  blue  eyes  to  the  ground.  I  never  looked 
so  lovely.  ..."  I  declare,"  said  I,  "  I  would  say  any- 
thing on  earth  to  relieve  you — only  tell  me  what."  "  Angel 
of  light!  "  exclaimed  he,  springing  upon  his  feet,  and  beam- 
ing on  me  a  smile  that  might  liquefy  marble.  "  Have  I 
then  hope?  Dare  I  say  it?  Dare  I  pronounce  the  divine 
words,  '  she  loves  me?  '  "  "  I  am  thine  and  thou  art  mine," 
murmured  I,  while  the  room  swam  before  me. 


SIR   JONAH   BARRINGTON. 

(1760—1834.) 

JoxAH  Barrington  was  born  in  17(50,  educated  at  Trinity  College, 
Dublin,  and  in  1788  was  called  to  the  bar  ;  two  years  later  he  was 
returned  as  nienil)t'r  for  Tuam.  He  opposed  Grattan  and  Curran, 
and  was  made  a  King's  Counsel  and  rewarded  by  the  Government 
in  1793  by  a  sinecure  office  in  the  Custom  House,  worth  £1,000 
($5,000)  a  year. 

In  1798  he  lost  his  seat,  hut  in  the  next  year  was  returned  for 
Banagher.  He  voted  against  the  Union,  and  yet  with  strange  in- 
consistency he  acted  as  Goverinnent  procurer  for  bribing  at  least 
one  member  to  vote  in  favor  of  the  Union.  In  1803  he  stood  for 
the  city  of  Dublin  in  the  Imperial  Parliament,  but  was  defeated, 
although  he  had  the  support  of  Grattan,  Curran,  Ponsonby,  and 
Plunket.  Later  he  was  made  judge  in  the  Admiralty  Court,  and 
knighted.  In  1809  he  published,  in  five  parts,  the  first  volume  of 
the  *  Historic  Memoirs  of  Iniland.' 

After  this  lie  lived  in  France  for  some  time,  compelled  thereto 
both  by  political  and  by  financial  considerations  of  a  not  altogether 
creilitable  kind.  The  manner  of  his  going  is  thus  described  by  W. 
J.  Fitzpatrick,  in  'The  Sham  Squire'  :  •'  He  had  pledged  his  family 
plate  for  a  considerable  sum  to  Mr.  John  Stevenson,  pawnbroker 
and  member  of  the  Common  Council.  '  My  dear  fellow,'  said  the 
knight  condescendingly,  as  he  dropped  in  one  day  to  that  person's 
private  closet,  '  I  *m  in  a  d 1  of  a  hobble.  I  asked,  quite  im- 
promptu, the  Lord-Lieutenant,  Chancellor,  and  judges  to  dine  with 
me,  forgetting  how  awkwardly  I  was  situated,  and,  by  Jo^•e  I  tliey  've 
written  to  say  they  '11  come.  Of  course  I  could  not  entertain  them 
without  the  plate.  I  shall  require  it  for  that  evening  only,  but  it 
must  be  on  one  condition,  that  you  come  yourself  to  the  dinner  and 
represent  the  Corporation.  Bring  the  plate  with  you,  and  take  it 
back  at  niglit.'  Tlie  pawnbroker  was  dazzled  ;  although  not  usurJlj^ 
given  to  nepotism,  he  wilHngly  embraced  the  proposal.  During 
dinner  and  after  it  he  (Sir  Jonah)  plied  his  uncle  with  wine.  The 
pawnljrcjker  had  a  bad  head  for  potation,  though  a  good  one  for 
valuation.  He  fell  asleep  and  under  the  table  almost  sinudta- 
neously,  and  when  he  awoke  to  a  full  consciousness  Sir  Jonah,  ac- 
companied by  the  plate,  was  on  his  way  to  Boulogne,  never  again 
to  visit  his  native  land." 

In  1827  he  published  two  volumes  of  '  Personal  Sketches  of  His 
Own  Times.'  In  1830,  by  an  address  from  both  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment, he  was  removed  from  the  bench,  in  consequence  of  misappro- 
priation of  fjublic  money.  In  1833  appeared  the  tliird  volume  of 
*  Personal  Sketches,'  and  in  tlie  same  year  tlie  completion  of  his 
'  Hi-storic  Memoirs.'  This  book  was  subsequently  reproduced  in  a 
cheaper  form  as  '  The  Rise  and  Fall  of  tlie  Irish  Nation.'  His  works 
are  chiefly  valuable  for  their  vivid  pictuies  of  the  social  and  pf>liti- 
cal  conditicjns  of  his  time — but  they  are  not  always  to  be  relied 
uixju  liH  to  matters  of  fact.     He  died  in  1831. 

12G 


,^/7?    JONAH    BARRJXGTON.  127 

PULPIT,    BAR,   AND   PARLIAMENTARY 
ELOQUENCE. 

From  '  Personal  Sketches  of  His  Own  Times.' 

The  preucliing  of  one  minister  rendered  me  extremely 
fastidious  respecting  elo(iuence  from  the  pulpit. 

This  individual  was  Dean  Kirwan  (now  no  more),  wlio 
pronounced  the  most  impressive  orations  I  ever  heard 
from  the  mend)ers  of  my  profession  at  any  era.  It  is  true 
he  spoke  for  effect,  and  therefore  directed  his  flow  of  elo- 
quence according  to  its  apparent  influence.  I  have  listened 
to  this  man  actually  with  astonishment.  He  was  a  gen- 
tleman by  birth,  had  been  educated  as  a  Roman  Catholic 
priest,  and  officiated  some  time  in  Ireland  in  that  capacity, 
but  afterwards  conformed  to  the  Protestant  church,  and 
was  received  ad  einidem.  His  extraordinary  powers  soon 
brought  him  into  notice,  and  he  was  promoted  by  Lord 
Westmoreland  to  a  living;  afterward  became  a  dean,  and 
would,  most  probably,  have  been  a  bishop ;  but  he  had  an 
intractable  turn  of  mind,  entirely  repugnant  to  the  usual 
means  of  acquiring  high  preferment.  It  was  much  to  be 
lamented,  that  the  independence  of  principle  and  action 
Avhich  he  certainly  possessed  was  not  accompanied  by  any 
reputation  for  philanthropic  qualities.  His  justl}^  high 
opinion  of  himself  seemed  (unjustly)  to  overwhelm  every 
other  consideration. 

Dr.  Kirwan's  figure,  and  particularly  his  countenance, 
were  not  prepossessing;  there  was  an  air  of  discontent  in 
his  looks,  and  a  sharpness  in  his  features,  which,  in  the 
aggregate,  amounted  to  something  not  distant  from  repul- 
sion. His  manner  of  preaching  was  of  the  French  school : 
he  was  vehement  for  a  while,  and  then,  becoming  (or  af- 
fecting to  become)  exhausted,  he  held  his  handkerchief  to 
his  face :  a  dead  silence  ensued — he  had  skill  to  perceive  the 
precise  moment  to  recommence — another  blaze  of  declama- 
tion burst  upon  the  congregation,  and  another  fit  of 
exhaustion  was  succeeded  by  another  pause.  The  men 
began  to  wonder  at  his  elo(]uence,  the  women  grew 
nervous  at  his  denunciations.  His  tact  rivaled  his  talent, 
and  at  the  conclusion  of  one  of  his  finest  sentences,  a 
"  celestial  exhaustion,"  as  I  heard  a  lady  call  it,  not  un- 


12S  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

fiviiiieutly  torminatod  his  discourse^ — in  j;eneral,  abruptly. 
If  the  subject  Avas  charity,  every  purse  was  hiid  hirgely 
under  contribntion.  In  the  chnrcli  of  Saint  Peter's,  where 
lie  preached  an  annual  chai'ity  sermon,  the  usual  collection, 
which  had  been  under  £-00  (.*1,000)  Avas  raised  by  the 
Dean  to  £1,100  (|5,500),  I  knew  a  gentleman  myself,  who 
threw  both  his  purse  and  watch  into  the  plate! 

Yet  the  oratory  of  this  celebrated  preacher  would  have 
answered  in  no  othei-  profession  than  his  own,  and  served 
to  conii)Iete  my  idea  of  the  true  distinction  between  pulpit, 
bar,  and  parliamentary  eloquence.  Kirwan  in  the  pulpit, 
Curran  at  the  bar,  and  Sheridan  in  the  senate,  were  the 
three  most  effective  orators  I  ever  recollect,  in  their  re- 
spective departments. 

Kirwan's  talents  seemed  to  me  to  be  limited  entirely  to 
elocution.  I  had  much  intercourse  with  him  at  the  house 
of  ^Ir.  llely,  of  Tooke's  Court.  AVhile  residing  in  Dublin, 
I  met  him  at  a  variety  of  places,  and  my  overwrought  ex- 
pectations, in  fact,  were  a  good  deal  disappointed.  I  lis 
style  of  address  had  nothing  engaging  in  it;  nothing  either 
dignified  or  graceful.  In  his  conversation  there  was 
neither  sameness  nor  variety,  ignorance  nor  information; 
and  yet,  somehow  or  other,  he  avoided  insipidity.  His 
amour  jnrjpre  was  the  most  prominent  of  his  superficial 
qualities;  and  a  bold,  manly  independence  of  mind  and 
feeling,  the  most  obvious  of  his  deeper  ones.  I  ])elieve  he 
was  a  good  man,  if  he  could  not  be  termed  a  very  amiable 
one;  and  learned,  although  niggardly  in  communicating 
what  he  knew. 

I  have  remarked  thus  at  large  upon  Dean  Kirwan,  be- 
cause he  was  by  far  the  most  eloquent  and  effective  })ul])it 
orator  I  ever  heard,  and  because  I  never  met  an^^  man 
whose  character  I  felt  myself  more  at  a  loss  accurately  to 
pronounce  upon.  It  has  been  said  that  his  sermons  were 
adroitly  extracted  from  jiassages  in  the  celebrated  dis- 
courses of  Saurin,  the  Iluguenot,  Avho  preached  at  The 
Hague  (grand fatln'r  to  the  late  Attorney-rjeneral  of  Ire- 
land ).  It  may  be  so;  and  in  that  case  all  I  can  say  is,  that 
Kirwjin  was  a  mf)st  judicious  selector,  and  that  I  doubt 
if  the  elo(|ucnt  writer  made  a  hundredth  part  of  the  im- 
pression of  liis  (']o<|uent  plagiarist. 

I  should  myself  be  the  plagiarist  of  a  hundred  writers, 


SIR   JONAH    BARRIXGTON.  129 

if  T  attempted  to  descant  n])oii  tlie  parliamentary  eloquence 
of  {Sheridan.  It  only  S(*ems  necessary  to  refer  to  Lis  speech 
on  Mr.  Hastings'  trial;  at  least,  that  is  sufficient  to  de- 
cide me  as  to  his  immense  superiority  over  all  his  rivals 
in  splendid  declamation.  Many  great  men  have  their  in- 
dividual points  of  superiority,  and  I  am  sure  that  Sheridan 
could  not  have  preached,  nor  Kirwan  have  pleaded.  Cur- 
ran  could  have  done  both,  Grattan  neither:  but,  in  lan- 
guage calculated  to  rouse  a  nation,  Grattan,  while  young, 
far  exceeded  either  of  them. 

I  have  often  met  Sheridan,  but  never  knew  him  inti- 
mately. He  was  my  senior,  and  my  superior.  While  he 
was  in  high  repute,  I  was  at  laborious  duties;  while  he  was 
eclipsing  everybody  in  fame  in  one  country,  I  was  laboring 
hard  to  gain  any  in  another.  He  professed  whiggism  :  I  did 
not  understand  it,  and  I  have  met  very  few  patriots  who 
appear  to  have  acted  even  on  their  definition  thereof. 


THE   SEVEN   BARONETS. 

From  '  Personal  Sketches  of  His  Own  Times.' 

Among  those  Parliamentary  gentlemen  frequently  to  be 
found  in  the  coffee-room  of  the  House,  were  certain  bar- 
onets of  very  singular  character,  who,  until  some  division 
called  them  to  vote,  passed  the  intermediate  time  in  high 
conviviality.  Sir  John  Stuart  Hamilton,  a  man  of  small 
fortune  and  large  stature,  possessing  a  most  liberal  appe- 
tite for  both  solids  and  fluids — much  wit,  more  humor,  and 
indefatigable  cheerfulness — might  be  regarded  as  their 
leader. 

Sir  Richard  Musgrave,  who  (except  on  the  abstract 
topics  of  politics,  religion,  martial  law,  his  wife,  the  Pope, 
the  Pretender,  the  Jesuits,  Napper  Tandy,  and  the  whip- 
ping-post) was  generally  in  his  senses,  formed,  during 
these  intervals,  a  very  entertaining  addition  to  the  com- 
pany. 

Sir  Edward  Newnham,  member  for  Dublin  County,  af- 
forded a  whimsical  variety  of  the  affectation  of  early  and 
exclusive  transatlantic  intelligence.  By  repeatedly  writ- 
9 


130  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

iu«r  U'Urrs  of  i-oiiiiratiilat ion,  ho  had  at  lc'iii;tli  extorted  a 
ivi)lv  IVoiii  (li'iR'ial  \\'asliiiiiitoii,  which  he  exliibited  upon 
evei-y  oc-casion,  i;iviii<;-  it  to  be  understood,  Iw  sii^niticant 
nods,  that  he  knew  vastly  more  than  he  thou<i;ht  proper  to 
conmnmleate. 

Sir  ^'esey  Colclou^h,  member  for  County  Wexford,  who 
understood  books  and  wine  l»etter  than  duy  of  tlie  party, 
had  all  his  davs  treated  nionev  so  extremely  ill,  that  it 
would  continue  no  longer  in  his  service  I — and  the  dross  (as 
he  termed  it)  having  entirely  forsaken  him,  he  hequeathed 
an  immense  landed  property,  during  his  life,  to  the  usea 
of  custodiams,  degits,  and  judgments,  whir-h  never  fail  to 
place  a  gentleman's  acres  under  the  special  guardianship 
of  the  attorneys.  lie  was  father  to  that  excellent  man, 
John  Colclougli,  who  was  killed  at  Wexford,  and  to  the 
present  Ca?sar  Colclougli,  whose  fall  might  probably  have 
afforded  rather  less  cause  of  regret. 

Sir  Vesey  added  much  to  the  pleasantry  of  the  party  by 
occasionally  forcing  on  them  deep  subjects  of  literature,  of 
which  few  of  his  companions  could  make  either  head  or 
tail:  but  to  avoid  the  imputation  of  ignorance,  the.y  often 
gave  the  most  ludicrous  proofs  of  it  on  literary  subjects, 
geography,  and  astronomy,  with  which  he  eternally  bored 
them. 

Sir  Frederick  Flood,  also  member  for  County  Wexford, 
whose  exhibitions  in  the  imperial  Parliament  have  made 
him  tolerably  well  known  in  l^ngland,  was  very  different 
in  his  habits  from  the  last-mentioned  baronet;  his  love  of 
money  and  spirit  of  ostentation  never  losing  their  hold 
throughout  every  action  of  l.is  life.  ITe  was  but  a  second- 
rate  blunderer  in  Ireland.  The  bulls  of  Sir  Boyle  Roche 
(of  whom  we  shall  speak  hereafter)  generally  involved 
aj)horisms  of  sound  sense,  while  Sir  Frederick's,  on  the 
other  hand,  possessed  the  qualification  of  being  pure  non- 
sense ! 

He  was  a  prctii/,  dapper  man,  very  goo-l  tempered,  and 
had  a  droll  habit,  of  which  he  could  never  effectually  break 
himself  (at  least  in  Ireland)  :  whenever  a  person  at  his 
back  whisj>ered  or  suggested  anything  to  him  while  he  was 
speaking  in  public,  without  a  moment's  reflection  he  al- 
most always  involuntarily  repeated  the  suggestion  litera- 
tim. 


SIR   JONAH    BARRISGTON.  131 

Sir  Frederick  was  once  iiiakinj;  a  loiiu-  sj^eecli  in  tlie 
Irish  Parliament,  landinf^j  the  transcendent  merits  of  the 
Wexford  mai;istracy,  on  a  motion  for  extending;  the  crim- 
inal jurisdiction  in  that  county,  to  keep  down  the  dis- 
affected. As  he  was  closing  a  most  turgid  oration,  by 
declaring  that  "  the  said  magistracy  ought  to  receive  some 
signal  mark  of  the  Lord-Lieutenant's  favor,"  John  Egan, 
who  was  rather  mellow,  and  sitting  behind  him,  jocularly 
whispered,  "•  and  be  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail."  "  And  be 
whipped  at  the  cart's  tail  I"  repeated  Sir  Frederick  un- 
consciously, amid  peals  of  the  most  uncontrollable  laugh- 
ter. 

Sir  eTohn  Blacquiere  flew  at  higher  game  than  the  other 
baronets,  though  he  occasionally  fell  into  the  trammels  of 
Sir  John  Hamilton.  Sir  John  Blacquiere  was  a  little  deaf 
of  one  ear,  for  which  circumstance  he  gave  a  very  sin- 
gular reason.  His  seat,  when  secretary,  was  the  outside 
one  on  the  Treasury-bench,  next  to  a  gangway ;  and  he  said 
that  so  many  members  used  to  come  perpetually  to  whis- 
per to  him,  and  the  buzz  of  importunity  was  so  heavy  and 
continuous,  that  before  one  claimant's  words  had  got  out 
of  his  ear,  the  demand  of  another  forced  its  way  in,  till 
the  ear-drum,  being  overcharged,  absolutely  burst ! — which, 
he  said,  turned  out  conveniently  enough,  as  he  was  then 
obliged  to  stuff  the  organ  tight,  and  tell  every  gentleman 
that  his  physician  had  directed  him  not  to  use  that  at  all, 
and  the  other  as  little  as  possible ! 

Sir  John  Stuart  Hamilton  plaj^ed  him  one  day,  in  the 
corridor  of  the  House  of  Commons,  a  trick  which  was  a 
source  of  great  entertainment  to  all  parties.  Joseph 
Hughes,  a  country  farmer  and  neighbor  of  Sir  John  Stuart 
Hamilton,  who  knew  nothing  of  great  men,  and  (in  com- 
mon with  many  remote  farmers  of  that  period)  had  very 
seldom  been  in  Dublin,  was  hard  pressed  to  raise  some 
money  to  pay  the  fine  on  a  renewal  of  a  bishop's  lease — 
his  only  property.  He  came  directly  to  Sir  John,  who,  I 
believe,  had  himself  drunk  the  farmer's  spring  prett^^  dry, 
while  he  could  get  anything  out  of  it.  As  they  were  stand- 
ing together  in  one  of  the  corridors  of  the  Parliament 
House,  Sir  John  Blacquiere  stopped  to  say  something  to 
his  brother  baronet;  his  star,  which  he  frequently  wore  on 


132  IRL^n    LITERATURE. 

ratliei-  shabbv  iduIs,  stnuk  the  iarmer's  eye,  who  had 
lu'ver  seeu  siu'h  a  thiug-  before;  and  coupling  it  with  the 
ver}-  bhuk  visage  of  the  wearer,  and  his  peculiar  appear- 
ance altogether,  our  rustic  was  induced  humbly  to  ask 
Sir  John  Hamilton,  ''  who  that  man  was  with  a  silver 
sign  on  his  coat?  " 

'•  Don't  you  know  him?  ''  cried  Sir  John;  "  why,  that  is 
a  famous  Jew  monej'-broker." 

'•  ^lay  be,  please  your  honor,  he  could  do  my  little  busi- 
ness for  me,"  responded  the  honest  farmer. 

"  Trial  's  all !  "  said  Sir  John. 

"  I  '11  pay  well,"  observed  Joseph. 

"  That  *s  precisely  what  he  likes,"  replied  the  baronet. 

"  Pra}-,  Sir  John,"  continued  the  farmer,  "  what 's  those 
words  on  his  sign?  "  (alluding  to  the  motto  on  the  star). 

''  Oh,"  answered  the  other,  "  they  are  Latin, '  Tria  juncta 
■in  lino/  " 

"  And  may  I  crave  the  English  thereof? "  asked  the 
unsuspecting  countryman. 

"  Three  in  a  bond,"  said  Sir  John. 

"Then  I  can  match  him!"  exclaimed  Hughes. 

"You'll  be  hard  set,"  cried  the  malicious  barOnet; 
"  however,  you  nmy  try." 

Hughes  then  approaching  Blacquiere,  who  had  removed 
but  a  very  small  space,  told  him  with  great  civility  and  a 
significant  nod,  that  he  had  a  little  matter  to  mention, 
which  he  tiusted  would  be  agreeable  to  both  parties.  Blac- 
(jiiiere  drew  him  aside  and  desired  him  to  |)roceed.  "To 
come  to  the  point  then  at  once,"  said  Hughes,  "  the  money 
is  not  to  say  a  great  deal,  and  I  can  give  you  three  in  a 
bond — myself  and  two  good  men  as  any  in  Cavan,  along 
with  me.  1  ]i()])e  tliat  will  answer  you.  Three  in  a  bond! 
safe  good  men." 

Sir  John,  who  wanted  a  sn]>ply  himself,  had  the  day  be- 
fore sent  to  a  person  who  had  advertised  the  lending  of 
money;  and  on  hearing  the  above  language  (taking  for 
granted  that  it  resulted  from  his  own  application),  he  civ- 
illy assured  Hughes  that  a  bond  would  be  of  no  use  to  him  ! 
good  bills  might  l)e  negotiated,  or  securities  turned  into 
cash,  though  at  a  loss,  but  Jjonds  would  not  answer  at  all. 

"  I  fliiidv  I  can  get  another  mau,  and  that's  one  more 
than  your  sign  requires,"  said  Hughes. 


^SIR   J  OX  AH    HARRINGTON.  133 

"  I  tell  yon,"  ropoated  Sir  John,  "  bonds  will  not  answer 
atall,  sir!— bills,  bills!" 

"  Then  it 's  fitter,"  retorted  the  incensed  farmer,  "  for 
you  to  be  after  putting  your  sir/ti  there  in  your  pocket,  than 
wearing  it  to  deceive  Christians,  you  usurer!  you  Jew, 
you ! " 

Nobody  could  be  more  amused  at  this  denouement 
than  Blacquiere  himself,  who  told  everybody  he  knew  of 
"  Hamilton's  trick  upon  the  countryman." 

Sir  Richard  Musgrave,  although  he  understood  drawing 
the  long  how  as  well  as  most  people,  never  patronized  it  in 
any  other  individual.  Sir  John  Hamilton  did  not  spare 
the  exercise  of  this  accomplisliment  in  telling  a  story,  one 
day,  in  the  presence  of  Sir  Richard,  who  declared  his  in- 
credulity rather  abruptly,  as  indeed  was  his  constant  man- 
ner. Sir  John  was  much  nettled  at  the  mode  in  which  the 
other  dissented,  more  particularly  as  there  were  some 
strangers  present.  He  asseverated  the  truth  on  his  icord: 
Sir  Richard,  however,  repeating  his  disbelief,  Sir  eTohn 
Hamilton  furiously  exclaimed,  "  you  say  you  don't  believe 
my  word?  " 

"  I  can't  believe  it,"  replied  Sir  Richard. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Sir  John,  "  if  you  won't  believe  my 
icord!  I  '11  give  it  you  under  my  hand,"  clenching  at  the 
same  moment  his  great  fist. 

The  witticism  raised  a  general  laugh,  in  which  the  par- 
ties themselves  joined,  and  in  a  moment  all  was  good 
humor.  But  the  company  condemned  both  the  offenders — 
Sir  John  for  teUinf/  a  lie,  and  Sir  Richard  for  7iot  Relieving 
it — to  the  payment  of  two  bottles  of  hock,  each. 

Whoever  the  following  story  may  be  fathered  on,  Sir 
John  Hamilton  was  certainly  its  parent.  The  Duke  of 
Rutland,  at  one  of  his  levees,  being  at  a  loss  (as  probably 
most  kings,  princes,  and  viceroys  occasionally  are)  for 
something  to  say  to  every  person  he  was  bound  in  etiquette 
to  notice,  remarked  to  Sir  John  Hamilton  that  there  was 
"a  prospect  of  an  excellent  crop;  the  timely  rain,"  ob- 
served the  Duke,  "  will  bring  everything  above  ground." 

"  God  forbid,  your  Excellency!  "  exclaimed  the  courtier. 

His  Excellency  stared,  while  Sir  John  continued,  sighing 
heavily,  as  he  spoke;  "Yes,  God  forbid!  for  I  have  got 
three  wives  under." 


131  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

At  Olio  of  those  hw^^v  couvivial  parties  which  distin- 
<iuisho(l  the  table  of  Major  Llobart,  wheu  he  was  secretary 
ill  Ireland,  aiuoiiji;  the  usual  loyal  toasts  "  The  wooden 
w alls  of  Kiiiilaiid  "  beinii'  «»iven,  Sir  John  Hamilton,  in  his 
turn,  uave  "The  wooden  walls  of  Ireland!"  This  toast 
bi'iiiu  (luite  new  to  us  all,  he  was  asked  for  an  explanation: 
upon  which,  tilling  up  a  bumper,  he  very  gravely  stood  up, 
and,  bowing  to  the  Manpiis  of  Waterford  and  several 
country-gentlenien,  who  commanded  county  regimentvS,  he 
said  :  "  ]My  lords  and  gentlemen  I  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
giving  you  '  The  wooden  walls  of  Ireland — tJic  colonels  of 
i/iihiia'    ' 

So  broad  but  so  good-humored  a  jcu-d' esprit  excited 
great  merriment;  the  truth  was  forgotten  in  the  jocularity, 
but  the  ei)ithet  did  not  perish.  I  saw  only  one  grave  coun- 
tenance in  the  room,  and  that  belonged  to  the  late  Mar(]uis 
of  Waterford,  who  was  the  pi-oudest  egotist  I  ever  met 
with.  He  had  a  tremendous  s(iuint,  nor  was  there  any- 
thing prepossessing  in  the  residue  of  his  features  to  atone 
for  that  deformity.  Nothing  can  better  exemplify  his  lord- 
ship's opinion  of  himself  and  others,  than  an  observation 
I  heard  him  make  at  Lord  Portarlington's  table.  Having 
occasion  for  a  superlative  degree  of  comparison,  between 
two  persons,  he  was  at  a  loss  for  a  climax.  At  length,  how- 
ever, he  luckily  hit  on  one.  "  That  man  was,"  said  the 
^laniuis,  "  he  was  as  superior  as — as — as — I  am  to  Lord 
Kanclaghl" 

I  will  now  advert  to  Sir  Boyle  Roche,  who  certainly  was, 
without  exce])tion,  the  most  celebrated  and  entertaining 
anti-grammarian  in  the  Irish  Parliament.  I  knew  him  in- 
timately. He  was  of  a  very  respectable  Irish  family,  and 
in  point  of  appearance,  a  fine,  bluff,  soldier-like  old  gen- 
tleman. He  had  nniiierons  good  qualities;  and,  having  been 
long  in  tlic  army,  his  ideas  were  full  of  honor  and  eti(|uett(i 
— of  discipline  and  bravery.  He  had  a  claim  to  the  title 
of  Fermoy,  which,  however,  he  never  pursued;  and  was 
bi-other  to  the  famous  Tiger  Roche,  who  fought  some  des- 
]»crate  duel  abroad,  and  was  near  being  hanged  for  it.  Sir 
P>oyl('  was  perfectly  w<'ll  bred  in  all  his  habits;  had  been 
appointcrl  gentleman-usher  at  the  Irish  court,  and  executed 
the  dnties  of  that  ollice  to  the  dav  of  his  death,  with  the 
utmost  satisfaction  to  himself,  as  well  as  to  every  one  in 


SIR   JONAH    BARRIXGTON.  135 


connettion  with  him.  He  was  married  to  the  ehlest  dau<»h- 
ter  of  Sir  John  Cave,  Bart.;  and  liis  lady,  who  was  a  **^  has 
hleii,"  prematurely  injured  Sir  Boyle's  capacity  (it  was 
said)  by  forcing  him  to  read  Gibbon's  '  Rise  and  Fall  of 
the  Ronum  Empire,'  whereat  he  was  so  cruelly  puzzled 
without  being  in  the  least  amused,  that  in  his  cui)s  he  often 
stigmatized  the  great  historian  as  a  low  fellow,  who  ought 
to  have  been  kicked  out  of  company  wherever  he  was,  for 
turning  people's  thoughts  away  from  their  praj^ers  and 
their  politics  to  what  the  devil  himself  could  make  neither 
head  nor  tail  of. 

His  perpetually  bragging  that  Sir  John  Cave  had  given 
him  his  eldent  daughter,  afforded  Curran  an  opportunity  of 
replying,  "  Ay,  Sir  Boyle,  and  depend  on  it,  if  he  had  an 
older  one  still  he  would  have  given  her  to  you."  Sir  Boyle 
thought  it  best  to  receive  the  repartee  as  a  compliment,  lest 
it  should  come  to  her  ladyship's  ears,  who,  for  several 
3'ears  back,  had  prohibited  Sir  Boyle  from  all  allusions  to 
chronology. 

The  baronet  had  certainly  one  great  advantage  over  ail 
other  bull  and  blunder  makers :  he  seldom  launched  a  blun- 
der from  which  some  fine  aphorism  or  maxim  might  not  be 
easily  extracted.  When  a  debate  arose  in  the  Irish  House 
of  Commons  on  the  vote  of  a  grant  which  was  recommended 
by  Sir  John  Parnell,  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  as  one 
not  likely  to  be  felt  burdensome  for  many  years  to  come — it 
was  observed  in  reply,  that  the  House  had  no  just  right  to 
load  posterity  with  a  weighty  debt  for  what  could  in  no 
degree  operate  to  their  advantage.  Sir  Boyle,  eager  to 
defend  the  measure  of  Government,  immediately  rose,  and 
in  a  very  few  words,  put  forward  the  most  unanswerable 
argument  which  human  ingenuity  could  possibly  devise. 
"  What,  Mr.  Speaker  I  "  said  he,  "•  and  so  we  are  to  beggar 
ourselves  for  fear  of  vexing  posterity !  Now,  I  would  ask 
the  honorable  gentleman,  and  stiU  more  honorable  House, 
why  we  should  put  ourselves  out  of  our  way  to  do  anything 
for  posterity;  for  what  has  posterity  done  for  usf  '^ 

Sir  Boyle,  hearing  the  roar  of  laughter,  which  of  course 
followed  this  sensible  blunder,  but  not  being  conscious  that 
lie  had  said  anything  out  of  the  way,  was  rather  puzzled, 
and  conceived  that  the  House  had  misunderstood  him.    He 


136  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

therefore  bejii^ed  leave  to  exphuD,  as  he  apprehended  that 
p'litleineu  had  entirely  mistakeu  his  words:  he  assured  the 
House  that  "  bj  posterity,  he  did  not  at  all  mean  oiir  ances- 
tors, but  those  who  were  to  come  ininirdiatelij  after  them." 
V\^m\  hearinii  this  explanation,  it  was  impossible  to  do  any 
serious  business  for  half  an  hour. 

Sir  Boyle  Koche  was  induced  by  Government  to  fijiht  as 
hard  as  possible  for  the  Union;  so  he  did,  and  I  really  be- 
lieve famied,  by  decrees,  that  he  was  right.  On  one  occa- 
sion, a  jieneral  titter  arose  at  his  florid  picture  of  the  hap- 
I»iuess  which  must  i>roceed  from  this  event.  "  Gentlemen," 
said  Sir  Boyle,  "  may  titther,  and  titther,  and  titther,  and 
may  think  it  a  bad  measure;  but  their  heads  at  present  are 
hot,  and  will  so  remain  till  they  grow  cool  again;  and  so 
they  can't  decide  right  now;  but  when  the  daij  of  jmhjment 
comes,  then  honorable  gentlemen  will  be  satisfied  at  this 
most  excellent  union.  Sir,  there  is  no  Levitical  degrees  be- 
tween nations,  and  on  this  occasion  I  can  see  neither  sin 
nor  shame  in  marrying  our  own  sister.'^ 

He  was  a  determined  enemy  to  the  French  Revolution, 
and  seldom  rose  in  the  House  for  several  years  without  vol- 
unteering some  abuse  of  it.  "Mr.  Speaker,"  said  he,  in  a 
mood  of  tliis  kind,  "if  we  once  permitted  the  villanous 
French  masons  to  meddle  with  the  buttresses  and  walls 
of  our  ancient  constitution,  they  would  never  stop,  nor 
stay,  sir,  till  they  brought  the  foundation-stones  tumbling 
<l<)\\ii  about  the  ears  of  the  nation!  There,"  continued  Sir 
Boyle,  placing  his  hand  earnestly  on  his  heart,  his  pow- 
dered head  shaking  in  unison  with  his  loyal  zeal,  while  he 
described  the  probable  consequences  of  an  invasion  of  Ire- 
land by  the  French  republicans;  "there,  Mr.  Speaker!  if 
those  Gallician  villains  should  invade  us,  sir,  'tis  on  that 
very  tat)le,  may-be,  these  honorable  members  might  see 
their  own  destinies  lying  in  hea])s  atop  of  one  another! 
Here  perhaps,  sir,  tlie  murderous  Marshallaw-men  (Mar- 
seillais)  would  break  in,  cut  us  to  mince-meat  and  throw 
our  bleeding  heads  ujjon  that  table,  to  stare  us  in  the 
face!" 

Sir  Boyle,  on  another  occasion,  was  arguing  for  the 
haljea.H  corpus  susj)ension  bill  in  Ireland  :  "  It  would  surely 
be  better,  Mr.  Speaker,"  said  he,  "  to  give  ufj  not  only  a 


SIR   JONAH   BARRINGTON.  137 

part,  but,  if  necessary,  even  the  ichole,  of  our  constitution, 
to  preserve  the  reniauider!  " 

This  baronet  having-  been  one  of  tlie  Irish  Parliamentary 
curiosities  before  tiie  Union,  I  have  only  exeiiii)lilie(l  his 
mode  of  blundering,  as  many  ridiculous  sayings  have  been 
attributed  to  him.  He  blundered  certainly  moi-e  than  any 
public  speaker  in  Ireland;  but  his  bulls  were  rather  logical 
perversions,  and  had  some  strong  point  in  most  of  them. 

The  English  people  consider  a  bull  as  nothing  more  than 
a  vulgar,  nonsensical  expression:  but  Irish  blunders  are 
frequently  humorous  hyperboles  or  oxymorons^  and  pre- 
sent very  often  the  most  energetic  mode  of  expressing  the 
speaker's  meaning. 

On  the  motion  to  expel  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald  from 
the  House  of  Commons,  for  hast^^  disrespectful  expressions 
regarding  the  House  and  the  Lord-Lieutenant,  it  Avas  ob- 
servable that  the  motion  was  violently  supported  by  the 
younger  men  then  in  Parliament,  including  the  late  Mar- 
quis of  Ormonde.  The  Marquis  was,  indeed,  one  of  the 
strongest  supporters  of  a  measure  the  object  of  which 
was  to  disgrace  a  young  nobleman,  his  own  equal :  and  it 
was  likewise  worthy  of  remark  that  the  motion  was  re- 
sisted hj  the  steadiest  and  oldest  members  of  the  House. 

Sir  Boyle  Roche  labored  hard  and  successfully  for  Lord 
Edward,  who  was  eventually  required  to  make  an  apology; 
it  was  not,  however,  considered  sufficiently  ample  or  re- 
pentant. Sir  Boyle  was  at  his  wits'  end,  and  at  length 
produced  a  natural  syllogism,  which,  by  putting  the  House 
in  good  humor,  did  more  than  a  host  of  reasoners  could 
have  achieved.  "  Mr.  Speaker,"  said  the  baronet,  "  I  think 
the  noble  young  man  has  no  business  to  make  any  apology. 
He  is  a  gentleman,  and  none  such  should  be  asked  to  make 
an  apology,  because  no  gentleman  could  mean  to  give 
offense." 

Never  was  there  a  more  sensible  hliiuder  than  the  fol- 
lowing. We  recommend  it  as  a  motto  to  gentlemen  in  the 
army,  "  The  best  way,"  said  Sir  Boyle,  "  to  avoid  danger 
is  to  meet  it  plumh.-' 

1  Oxymorons,  sharp  antitheses. 


1.^^  IRISH    IJTERATURE. 

IKISn    GENTRY    AND    TLIEIK    RETAINERS. 

From  '  Personal  Sketches  of  His  Own  Times.' 

The  iinniorons  and  remarkable  instances,  which  came 
■within  my  own  observation,  of  mntnal  attachment  between 
tlie  Ii'isli  ix'asantry  and  tlieii*  landlords  in  former  times, 
wonld  lill  volumes.  A  few  only  will  suffice,  in  addition  to 
what  has  already  been  stated,  to  show^  the  nature  of  that 
reciprocal  jiood-will,  which  on  many  occasions  was  singu- 
hirly  useful  to  both;  and,  in  selecting  these  instances  from 
such  as  occurred  in  my  own  family,  I  neither  mean  to  play 
tlie  vain  egotist  nor  to  determine  generals  by  particulars, 
since  good  landlords  and  attached  peasantry  were  then 
spread  over  the  entire  face  of  Ireland,  and  bore  a  great  pro- 
])ortion  to  the  whole  country. 

I  r(Miieiid)er  that  a  very  extensive  field  of  corn  of  my 
father's  had  once  become  too  ripe,  inasmuch  as  all  the 
reapers  in  the  country  were  employed  in  getting  in  their 
own  scanty  crops  before  they  shedded.  Some  of  the  ser- 
vants had  heard  my  father  regret  that  he  could  not  by  any 
possibility  get  in  his  reapers  without  taking  them  from 
these  little  crops,  and  that  he  would  sooner  lose  his  own. 

Tin's  tield  was  within  full  view  of  our  windows.  My 
fMtlicr  had  given  up  the  idea  of  being  able  to  cut  his  corn 
in  due  time.  One  morning,  when  he  rose,  he  could  not  be- 
lieve his  sight: — he  looked — rubbed  his  eyes — called  the 
servants,  and  asked  them  if  they  saw  anything  odd  in  the 
field:  they  certainly  did — for,  on  our  family  retiring  to 
i-cst  the  night  before,  the  whole  body  of  the  peasantry  of 
the  country,  after  their  hard  labor  during  the  day,  had 
<ome  down  upon  the  great  field,  and  had  reaped  and 
stacked  it  befoi-e  dawn  !  None  of  them  would  even  tell  him 
who  had  a  lian<l  in  it.  Similar  instances  of  affection  re- 
jicatcflly  took  ])hice;  and  no  tcnjuit  on  any  of  the  estates  of 
my  family  was  ever  distrained,  or  even  j)ressed,  for  rent. 
Their  gratitude  for  this  knew  no  bounds;  and  the  only  in- 
dividuals who  ever  annoyed  them  were  the  parsons  by  their 
piortois,  nnd  tlic  tax-gatliei-ers  for  hearth-money;  and 
tliougli  linrd  casli  wns  scant  witli  botli  bmdlord  nnd  ten- 
ant, and  no  small  banknotes  bad  ui;ot  into  circulation,  pro- 
visions were  plentiful,  and   but    little  inconvenience  was 


SIR   JOXAH    BARRIXGTOX.  139 

pxperieiicod  bv  the  peasantry  from  the  want  of  a  circulat- 
ing medium,  Tliere  was  constant  residence  and  work;  no 
banks,  no  machinery; — although  the  people  might  not  be 
quite  so  refined,  most  undoubtedly  they  were  vastly  hap- 
pier. 

But  a  much  more  characteristic  proof  than  the  foregoing 
of  the  extraordinary  devotion  of  the  lower  to  the  higher 
orders  in  Ireland,  in  former  times,  occurred  in  my  family 
and  is  on  record. 

My  grandfather,  Mr.  French,  of  County  Galway,  was  a 
remarkably  small,  nice  little  nmu,  but  of  an  extremely  ir- 
ritable temperament.  He  was  an  excellent  swordsman; 
and,  as  was  often  the  case  in  that  country,  proud  to  excess. 

Some  relics  of  feudal  arrogance  frequently  set  the 
neighbors  and  their  adherents  together  hy  the  ears;  my 
grandfather  had  conceived  a  contempt  for,  and  antipathy 
to,  a  sturdy  half-mounted  gentleman,  one  Mr.  Dennis  Bod- 
kin, who,  having  an  independent  mind,  entertained  an 
equal  aversion  to  the  arrogance  of  my  grandfather,  and 
took  every  possible  opportunity  of  irritating  and  opposing 
him. 

My  grandmother,  an  O'Brien,  was  high  and  proud — 
steady  and  sensible;  but  disposed  to  be  rather  violent  at 
times  in  her  contempts  and  animosities,  and  entirely 
agreed  with  her  husband  in  his  detestation  of  Mr.  Dennis 
Bodkin. 

On  some  occasion  or  other,  Mr.  Dennis  had  outdone  his 
usual  outdoings,  and  chagrined  the  squire  and  his  lady 
most  outrageously.  A  large  company  dined  at  my  grand- 
father's and  m^^  grandmother  launched  out  in  her  abuse 
of  Dennis,  concluding  her  exordium  by  an  hyperbole  of 
hatred  expressed,  but  not  at  all  meant,  in  these  words: 
"  I  wish  the  fellow's  ears  were  cut  off !  that  might  quiet 
him." 

It  passed  over  as  usual :  the  subject  was  changed,  and  all 
went  on  comfortably  till  supper;  at  which  time,  when 
everybody  was  in  full  glee,  the  old  butler  Ned  Regan  (who 
had  drank  enough)  came  in: — joy  was  in  his  eyo;  and, 
Avhispering  something  to  his  mistress  which  she  did  not 
comprehend,  he  put  a  large  snuff-box  into  her  hand.  Fan- 
cying it  was  some  whim  of  her  old  domestic,  she  opened 
the  box  and  shook  out  its  contents;  when  lo  I  a  considerable 


110  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

portion  of  a  pair  of  bloody  ears  dropped  on  the  table !  The 
horror  and  surprise  of  the  company  may  be  conceived; 
upon  which  old  Ned  exclaimed:  "Sure,  my  lady,  you 
wished  that  Dennis  Bodkin's  ears  were  cut  off,  so  I  told 
old  Oahauan  (the  game-keeper)  and  he  took  a  few  boys 
with  him,  and  brought  back  Dennis  Bodkin's  ears,  and 
there  they  are;  and  I  hoju'  you  are  plazed,  my  lady!  " 

The  scene  nmy  be  imagined — but  its  results  had  like  to 
have  been  of  a  more  siu-ious  nature.  The  sportsman  and 
the  boys  were  ordered  to  get  off  as  fast  as  they  could; 
but  my  grandfather  and  grandmother  were  held  to  heavy 
bail,  and  were  tried  at  the  ensuing  assizes  at  Galway.  The 
evidence  of  the  entire  company,  however,  united  in  proving 
that  my  grandmother  never  had  an  idea  of  any  such  order, 
and  that  it  was  a  mistake  on  the  part  of  the  servants. 
They  Avere,  of  course,  acquitted.  The  sportsman  never 
reai)peared  in  the  country  till  after  the  death  of  Dennis 
Bodkin,  which  took  place  three  years  subsequently. 

This  anecdote  may  give  the  reader  an  idea  of  the  devotion 
of  servants,  in  those  days,  to  their  masters.  The  order 
of  things  is  now  reversed;  and  the  change  of  times  cannot 
be  better  proved  than  by  the  propensity  servants  noio  have 
to  rob  (and,  if  convenient,  murder)  the  families  from 
whom  they  derive  their  daily  bread.  Where  the  remote 
error  lies,  I  know  not;  but  certainly  the  ancient  fidelity  of 
domestics  seems  to  be  totally  out  of  fashion  with  those 
gentry  at  i)resent. 

A  more  recent  instance  of  the  same  feeling  as  that  illus- 
trated  by  the  two  former  anecdotes — namely,  the  devotion 
of  the  country  people  to  old  settlers  and  families — oc- 
curred to  myself,  which,  as  I  am  upon  the  subject,  I  will 
now  mention.  I  stood  a  contested  election  in  the  year  1790, 
for  the  borough  of  Ballynakill,  for  which  my  ancestors 
had  returned  two  members  to  Parliament  during  nearl.y 
two  hundi-ed  years.  It  was  usurped  by  the  Marquis  of 
Drogheda,  and  I  contested  it. 

On  the  day  of  the  election,  my  eldest  brother  and  myself 
being  candidates  and  the  business  preparing  to  begin,  a 
cry  was  heard  that  the  whol(;  colliery  was  coming  down 
from  Donaiie,  about  ten  miles  off.  The  returning  officer, 
]Mr.  Freneli,  lost  no  time:  six  voters  were  polled  against 
me;  mine  were  refused  generally  in  mass.     The  books  were 


SIR   JONAH   BARRINGTON.  141 

repacked,  and  the  poll  declared — the  election  ended,  and 
my  opponents  just  retiring  from  the  town — when  seven  or 
eight  liundred  colliers  entered  it  with  colors  flying  and 
pipers  playing.  Their  faces  were  all  blackened,  and  a 
more  tremendous  assemblage  was  scarce  ever  seen.  After 
the  usual  shoutings,  etc.,  the  chief  captain  came  up  to  me. 
"  Counselor,  dear !  "  said  he,  "  we  're  all  come  from  Donane 
to  help  your  honor  against  the  villains  that  oppose  3'ou : 
we're  the  boys  that  can  tittivate! — Barrington  for  ever! 
hurra  I  "  Then  coming  close  to  me,  and  lowering  his  tone, 
he  added:  "Counselor,  jewel!  which  of  the  villains  shall 
we  settle  first?  " 

To  quiet  him,  I  shook  his  black  hand,  told  him  nobody 
should  be  hurt,  and  that  the  gentlemen  had  all  left  the 
town. 

"  Why,  then,  counselor,"  said  he,  "  we  '11  be  after  over- 
taking them.     Barrington  for  ever ! — Donane,  boys !  " 

I  feared  that  I  had  no  control  over  the  riotous  humor 
of  the  colliers,  and  knew  but  one  mode  of  keeping  them 
quiet.  I  desired  Billy  HoAvard,  the  innkeeper,  to  bring 
out  all  the  ale  he  had;  and  having  procured  many  barrels 
in  addition,  together  with  all  the  bread  and  cheese  in  the 
place,  I  set  them  at  it  as  hard  as  might  be.  I  told  them  I 
was  sure  of  being  elected  in  Dublin,  and  "  to  stay  asy  " 
(their  own  language)  ;  and  in  a  little  time  I  made  them  as 
tractable  as  lambs.  They  made  a  bonfire  in  the  evening, 
and  about  ten  o'clock  I  left  them  as  happy  and  merry  a  set 
of  colliers  as  ever  existed.  Such  as  were  able  strolled  back 
in  the  night,  and  the  others  next  morning,  and  not  the 
slightest  injury  was  done  to  anybody  or  anything. 

This  was  a  totally  unexpected  and  voluntary  proof  of 
the  disinterested  and  ardent  attachment  of  the  Irish 
country  people  to  all  whom  they  thought  would  protect  or 
procure  them  justice. 


THE   FIRE-EATERS. 

From  '  Personal  Sketches  of  His  Own  Times,' 

It  may  be  objected  that  anecdotes  of  dueling  have  more 
than  their  due  proportion  of  space  in  these  sketches,  and 


142  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

that  uc)  writci'  should  publisli  feats  of  tliat  nature  (if  feats 
they  can  be  caHed),  especially  when  performed  by  persons 
holding  grave  oltiees  or  by  publie  functionaries.  These 
are  very  i)lausible,  rational  observations,  and  are  now 
anticii>ated  for  the  ]nir]>ose  of  being  answered. 

It  might  be  considered  a  sufiicient  excuse,  that  these 
stories  refer  to  events  long  past;  that  they  are  amusing, 
and  the  more  so  as  being  matter  of  fact  (neither  romance 
nor  exaggeration),  and  so  various  that  no  two  of  them  are 
at  all  similar.  But  a  much  better  reason  can  be  given; 
namely,  that  th(>re  is  no  other  species  of  detail  or  anecdote 
which  so  clearly  brings  in  illustration  before  a  reader's 
eye  the  character,  genius,  and  the  uuinners  of  a  country  as 
tliat  which  exemplities  the  distinguishing  propensities  of 
its  population  for  successive  ages.  jNIucIi  knowledge  will 
necessarily  be  gained  by  possessing  such  a  series  of  anec- 
dotes, and  then  going  on  to  trace  the  decline  of  such  pro- 
pensities to  the  progress  of  civilization  in  that  class  of 
society  where  they  had  been  prevalent. 

As  to  the  objection  founded  on  the  rank  or  profession  of 
the  parties  concerned,  it  is  only  necessary  to  subjoin  the 
following  sJiort  abstract  from  a  long  list  of  official  duelists 
^\•ilo  have  ligured  in  my  time,  and  some  of  them  be- 
fore my  eyes.  The  number  of  grave  personages  who  ap- 
pear to  have  adopted  the  national  taste  (though  in  most 
instances  it  was  undoubtedly  before  their  elevation  to  the 
bench  that  they  signalized  themselves  in  single  combat), 
removes  from  me  all  iin])utations  of  ])it(hing  upon  and  ex- 
posing any  unusual  frailty;  and  I  think  I  may  challenge 
any  country  in  Europe  to  sliow  such  an  assemblage  of 
gallant  jiitlicial  and  official  antagonists  at  fire  and  sword 
as  is  exhibited  even  in  the  following  list. 

The  Lord  Chancellor  of  Ireland,  Earl  Clare,  fought  the 
Master  of  the  Kolls,  Curran. 

The  Chief  Justice  K.  R.,  Lord  Clonmell,  fought  Lord 
Tyrawly  (a  Privy  Councilor),  Lord  Llandaff,  and  two 
others. 

The  judge  of  the  county  of  Dublin,  Egan,  fought  the 
Master  of  tlic  Ifolls,  IJogcM-  Ran-ct,  and  three  others. 

The  Chan<elh>r  of  the  Iv\(li('(|U('r,  the  Kiglit  Honorable 
Isaac  Covry,  fought  the  Kight  Honorable  Henry  Crattan, 
a  I'rivy  Councilor,  and  another. 


»Sf/7?    JONAH    HARRINCxTON.  143 

A  Baron  of  the  Exchequer,  liaron  Medge,  fought  his 
brother-in-law  and  two  others. 

The  Chief  Justice  C  P.,  Lord  Norbury,  fought  Fire- 
eater  Fitzgerald  and  two  other  gentlemen,  and  frightened 
Napper  Tandy  and  several  besides:  one  hit  only. 

The  Judge  of  the  Prerogative  Court,  Doctor  Duigenan, 
fought  one  barrister  and  frightened  another  on  the  ground. 
X.  B.     The  latter  case  is  a  curious  one. 

The  chief  counsel  to  the  Revenue,  Henry  Deane  Grady, 
fought  Counselor  O'Mahon,  Counselor  Campbell,  and 
others;  all  hits. 

The  Master  of  the  Rolls  fought  Lord  Buckingham,  the 
Chief  Secretary,  etc. 

The  Provost  of  the  University  of  Dublin,  the  Right  Ilon- 
orable  Hely  Hutchinson,  fought  Mr.  Doyle,  master  in 
chancery  (they  went  to  the  plains  of  Minden  to  fight), 
and  some  others. 

The  Chief  Justice  C.  P.,  Patterson,  fought  three  country 
gentlemen,  one  of  them  with  swords,  another  with  guns, 
and  wounded  all  of  them. 

The  Right  Honorable  George  Ogle,  a  Privy  Councilor, 
fought  Barney  Coyle,  a  distiller,  because  he  was  a  papist. 
They  fired  eight  shots  and  no  hit;  but  the  second  broke 
his  own  arm. 

Thomas  Wallace,  K.  C,  fought  Mr.  O'Gorman,  the  Cath- 
olic secretary. 

Counselor  O'Connell  fought  the  Orange  chieftain;  fatal 
to  the  champion  of  Protestant  ascendency. 

The  collector  of  the  customs  of  Dublin,  the  Honorable 
Francis  Hitchinson,  fought  the  Right  Honorable  Lord 
Mountmorris. 

The  reader  of  this  dignified  list  (which,  as  I  have  said, 
is  only  an  abridgment)  will  surely  see  no  great  indecorum 
in  an  admiralty  judge  having  now  and  then  exchanged 
broadsides,  more  especially  as  they  did  not  militate  against 
the  law  of  nations. 

However,  it  must  be  owned  that  there  were  occasionally 
very  peaceful  and  forgiving  instances  among  the  barristers. 
I  saw  a  very  brave  king's  counsel,  ]Mr.  Curran,  horse- 
whipped most  severeh^  in  the  public  street,  by  a  \evy  sav- 
age nobleman.  Lord  Clanmorris;  and  another  barrister 
was  said  to  have  had  his  eye  saluted  by  a  moist  messenger 


144  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

from  a  ,2:ontloman's  lip  (^Mr.  ^May's)  in  the  body  of  the 
Ilonso  of  Coininons.  Yet  both  tliose  little  hicirilifirs  were 
arrauj^ed  very  aiiiieably,  in  a  private  manner,  and  without 
the  aid  of  any  deadly  weapon  whatsoever,  I  suppose  for 
variety's  sake.  But  the  people  of  Dublin  used  to  observe, 
that  a  judiiinent  eame  upon  Counselor  O'Callaj^han  for 
hnvini;  kei)t  Mr.  Cni'ran  qu'wt  in  tlie  horsewhippini;-  affair, 
inasniuih  as  his  own  brains  were  literally  scattered  about 
the  uround  by  an  attorney  very  soon  after  he  had  turned 
pacitieator. 

In  my  time,  the  number  of  killed  and  wounded  among 
the  bar  was  very  considerable.  The  other  learned  profes- 
sions suffered  much  less. 

It  is,  in  fact,  incredible  what  a  singular  passion  the 
Irish  gentlemen  (though  in  general  excellent-tempered  fel- 
lows) formerly  had  for  fighting  each  other  and  immedi- 
ately making  friends  again.  A  duel  was  indeed  consid- 
ered a  necessary  piece  of  a  young  man's  education,  but  by 
no  means  a  ground  for  future  animosity  with  his  opponent. 

One  of  the  most  humane  men  existing,  an  intimate 
friend  of  mine,  and  at  present  a  prominent  public  charac- 
ter, but  who  (as  the  expression  then  was)  had  frequently 
played  both  "  hilt  to  hilt "  and  "  muzzle  to  muzzle,"  was 
heard  endeavoring  to  keep  a  little  son  of  his  quiet,  who 
was  crying  for  something:  "Come,  now,  do  be  a  good 
boy  I  Come,  now,''  said  m^'  friend,  "  don't  cry,  and  I  '11  give 
you  a  case  of  nice  little  pistols  to-morrow.  Come,  now, 
don't  cry,  and  we  '11  sJioot  them  all  in  the  morning  I  "  "  Yes ! 
yes  I  we'll  shoot  them  all  in  the  morning!"  responded  the 
child,  drying  his  little  eyes  and  delighted  at  the  notion.  I 
have  heard  the  late  Sir  Charles  Ormsby,  who  affected  to  be 
a  wit,  thougli  at  best  but  a  humorist  and  (joiirmand,  liken 
the  story  of  my  friend  and  his  son  to  a  butcher  at  Nenagh, 
who  in  like  manner  wanted  to  keep  his  son  from  cry- 
ing, and  effectually  stop])ed  his  tears  by  saying:  "Come, 
now,  be  a  good  boy — don't  cry,  and  you  shall  kill  a  lamh  to- 
morrow I  Now  won't  you  be  good?  "  "  Oh  I  yes,  yes,"  said 
the  child  sobbing;  "  father,  is  the  lamb  ready?  " 

Within  my  recollection,  this  national  propensity  for 
fighting  and  slaughtering  was  nearly  universal,  originat- 
ing in  the  spirit  and  habits  of  former  times.  T^^hen 
men  bad  a  glowing  ambition  to  excel  in  all  manner  of 


SIR   JONAH    BARRINGTON.  145 

feats  and  exercises,  they  naturally  conceived  that  man- 
slauj;hter,  in  an  honest  way  (that  is,  not  knowing  which 
would  be  slaughtered),  was  the  most  chivalrous  and  gentle- 
manly of  all  their  accom])lishments;  and  this  idea  gave  rise 
to  an  assiduous  cultivation  of  the  arts  of  combat,  and  dic- 
tated the  wisest  laws  for  carrying  them  into  execution  with 
regularity  and  honor. 

About  the  year  1777,  the  fire-eaters  were  in  great  repute 
in  Ireland.  No  young  fellow  could  finish  his  education  till 
he  had  exchanged  shots  with  some  of  his  acquaintances. 
The  first  two  questions  always  asked  as  to  a  young  man's 
respectability  and  qualifications,  particularly  Avhen  he  pro- 
posed for  a  lady-wife,  were :  "  What  family  is  he  of?  " 
"  Did  he  ever  blaze?  " 

Tipperary  and  Gal  way  were  the  ablest  schools  of  the 
dueling  science.  Galway  was  most  scientific  at  the  sword: 
Tipperary  most  practical  and  prized  at  the  pistol :  Mayo 
not  amiss  at  either :  Roscommon  and  Sligo  had  many  pro- 
fessors and  a  high  reputation  in  the  leaden  branch  of  the 
pastime. 

When  I  was  at  the  university.  Jemmy  Keogh,  Buck 
English,  Cosey  Harrison,  Crowe  Ryan,  Reddy  Long,  Amby 
Bodkin,  Squire  Falton,  Squire  Blake,  Amby  Fitzgerald, 
and  a  few  others  were  supposed  to  understand  the  points 
of  honor  better  than  any  men  in  Ireland,  and  were  con- 
stantly referred  to. 

In  the  north,  the  Fallows  and  the  Fentons  were  the 
first  hands  at  it ;  and  most  counties  could  have  then  boasted 
their  regular  point-of-honor  men.  The  present  Chief  Jus- 
tice of  the  Common  Pleas  was  supposed  to  have  understood 
the  thing  as  well  as  any  gentleman  in  Ireland. 

In  truth,  these  oracles  were  in  general  gentlemen  of 
good  connections  and  most  respectable  families,  otherwise 
nobody  would  fight  or  consult  them. 

Every  family  then  had  a  case  of  hereditary  pistols,  which 
descended  as  an  heirloom,  together  with  a  long,  silver- 
hilted  sword,  for  the  use  of  their  posterity.  Our  family 
pistols,  denominated  pelters,  were  brass  (I  believe  my  sec- 
ond brother  has  them  still).  The  barrels  were  very  long, 
and  point-hlankers.  They  were  included  in  the  armory  of 
our  ancient  castle  of  Ballynakill  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth 

(the  stocks,  locks,  and  hair-triggers  were,  however,  mod- 
10 


14G  IRL^^n    LITERATURE. 

erii),  and  had  descended  from  father  to  son  fi-om  that 
ju'riod;  one  of  them  was  named  "Sweet  Li])s,"  the  other 
"  The  Darlinji."  The  family  rapier  was  called  "  Skiver  the 
I'nllet  '■  by  my  grand-uncle,  Captain  Wheeler  Barrington, 
who  had  fonuht  with  it  repeatedly,  and  run  through  dif- 
ferent i)arts  of  their  persons  several  Scots  officers,  who 
had  challenged  him  all  at  once  for  some  national  reflec- 
tion. It  was  a  very  long,  uarrow-bladed,  straight  cut-and- 
thrust,  as  sharp  as  a  razor,  with  a  silver  hilt  and  a  guard 
of  butt'  leather  inside  it.  I  kept  this  rapier  as  a  curiosity 
for  some  time;  but  it  was  stolen  during  my  absence  at 
Temple. 

I  knew  Jemnn'  Keogh  extremely  well.  He  was  consid- 
ered in  the  main  a  peacemaker,  for  he  did  not  like  to  see 
anybody  fight  but  himself;  and  it  was  universally  admitted 
that  he  never  killed  any  man  who  did  not  well  deserve  it. 
lie  was  a  plausible,  although  black-looking  fellow,  with 
renuirkably  thick,  long  eyebrows,  closing  with  a  tuft  over 
his  nose.  He  unfortunately  killed  a  cripple  in  the  Pha'nix 
Park,  which  accident  did  him  great  mischief.  He  was  a 
land-agent  to  Bourke  of  Glinsk,  to  whom  he  always  offi- 
ciated as  second. 

At  length,  so  many  quarrels  arose  without  sufficient!}' 
di()uift((l  j)]'ovocation,  and  so  many  things  were  considered 
(juarrels  of  course,  which  were  not  quarrels  at  all,  that  the 
principal  fire-eaters  of  the  south  saw  clearly  disrepute  was 
likely  to  be  thrown  on  both  the  science  and  its  professors, 
and  thought  it  full  time  to  interfere  and  arrange  nmtters 
ujioii  a  proper,  steady,  rational,  and  moderate  footing;  and 
to  regulate  the  time,  jjlace,  and  other  circumstances  of 
dueling,  so  as  to  govern  all  Ireland  on  one  principle — 
thus  establishing  a  uniform,  national  code  of  the  lex  pufj- 
nnudi;  ])roving,  as  Hugo  Clrotius  did,  that  it  was  for  the 
benefit  of  nil  belligerents  io  adopt  the  same  code  and  reg- 
ulations. 

In  furtherance  of  this  object,  a  l)ranch  society  had  been 
formed  in  Dublin,  termed  the  "Knights  of  Tara,"  which 
met  once  a  month  at  the  theater,  Chapel  Street,  gave  pre- 
miums for  fencing,  and  jiroceeded  in  the  most  laudably 
syste?natic  mniiner.  The  airiount  of  admission  money  was 
laid  out  on  silver  cuy)s,  and  given  1o  the  best  fencers  as 
prizes,  at  quarterly  exhibitions  of  pujiils  and  amateurs. 


SIR   JONAH    BARRIXOTOX.  147 

Fenciu*;  willi  the  snuill-sword  is  ccrtuinly  a  most  J)eau- 
tiful  and  noble  exercise;  its  accjnii'einent  confers  a  fine, 
bold,  and  manly  carria«»e,  a  dij^nifled  mien,  a  firm  step,  and 
graceful  motion.  But,  alas!  its  practicers  are  now  sup- 
l)lanted  by  contemptible  *ironps  of  sinirkinji,-  (juadi-illers 
with  unweaponed  belts,  stuffed  breasts,  and  strangled 
loins! — a  set  of  squeakin<2j  dandies,  whose  sex  may  be  read- 
ily mistaken,  or,  I  should  say,  is  of  no  consequence. 

The  theater  of  the  Knii^hts  of  Tara,  on  these  occasions, 
was  always  overflowing.  The  combatants  were  dressed  in 
close  cambric  jackets,  o-arnished  with  ribands,  each  wear- 
ing the  favorite  color  of  his  fair  one;  bunches  of  ribands 
also  dangled  at  their  knees,  and  roses  adorned  their  mo- 
rocco slippers,  which  had  buff  soles  to  prevent  noise  in 
their  lunges.  No  masks  or  visors  were  used  as  in  these 
more  timorous  times;  on  the  contrary,  every  feature  was 
uncovered,  and  its  inflections  all  visible.  The  ladies  ap- 
peared in  full  morning  dresses,  each  handing  his  foil  to 
her  champion  for  the  day,  and  their  presence  animated  the 
singular  exhibition.  From  the  stage-boxes  the  prizes  were 
likewise  handed  to  the  conquerors  by  the  fair  ones,  accom- 
panied each  with  a  wreath  of  laurel,  and  a  smile  then  more 
valued  than  a  hundred  victories !  The  tips  of  the  foils  were 
blackened,  and  therefore  instantly  betrayed  the  hits  on  the 
cambric  jacket,  and  proclaimed  without  doubt  the  success- 
ful combatant.  xVU  was  decorum,  gallantry,  spirit,  and 
good  temper. 

The  Knights  of  Tara  also  held  a  select  committee  to 
decide  on  all  actual  questions  of  honor  referred  to  them : 
to  reconcile  differences,  if  possible;  if  not,  to  adjust  the 
terms  and  continuance  of  single  combat.  Doubtful  points 
were  solved  generally  on  the  peaceable  side,  provided  wo- 
men were  not  insulted  or  defamed ;  but  when  that  was  the 
case,  the  knights  were  obdurate  and  blood  must  be  seen. 
They  were  constituted  by  ballot,  something  in  the  manner 
of  the  Jockey  Club,  but  without  the  possibility  of  being 
dishonorable,  or  the  opportunity  of  cheating  each  other. 

This  most  agreeable  and  useful  association  did  not  last 
above  two  or  three  years.  I  cannot  tell  why  it  broke  up : 
I  rather  think,  however,  the  original  fire-eaters  thought 
it  frivolous,  or  did  not  like  their  own  ascendency  to  be 
rivaled.     It  was  said  that  they  threatened  direct  hostil- 


14S  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

ities  against  the  kuights;  and  I  am  the  more  disposed  to 
believe  this,  because,  soon  after,  a  comprehensive  code  of 
the  laws  and  points  of  honor  was  issued  by  the  southern 
tire-eaters,  with  directions  that  it  should  be  strictly  ob- 
served by  gentlemen  throughout  the  kingdom,  and  kept  in 
their  pistol-cases,  that  ignorance  might  never  be  pleaded. 
This  code  was  not  circulated  in  print,  but  very  numerous 
written  copies  were  sent  to  the  different  county  clubs,  etc. 
;My  father  got  one  for  his  sons,  and  I  transcribed  most 
(I  believe  not  all)  of  it  into  some  blank  leaves.  These 
rules  brought  the  whole  business  of  dueling  into  a  focus, 
and  have  been  much  acted  upon  down  to  the  present  day. 
They  called  them  in  Galway  "  the  thirty-six  command- 
ments." 


MJ^BAEL    JOSEPH    BAKKY. 

(1817-1889.) 

Michael  Joseph  Barry  was  born  in  Cork  in  1817.  He  Avrote  much 
for  The  Nation,  chiefly  in  vcr.se  over  the  si;^natures  of  "  B.,"  "  B.  J.," 
"  Beta,"  and  "  Brutus."  He  won  the  prize  of  £100  ($500)  offered  by 
the  Repeal  Association  in  1843  for  the  best  essay  on  Repeal.  The 
'  Kishoge  Papers '  appeared  in  the  Dublin  University  Magazine  an- 
onymously and  were  republished  in  one  volume  tinder  the  pseu- 
donym of  "  Bouillon  de  Gargon." 

He  was  editor  of  the  Cork  Southern  Reporter  for  some  years  from 
1848  and  published  also  the  following  books  :  '  A  Waterloo  Com- 
memoration,' 'Lays  of  the  War,'  'Six  Songs  of  Beranger,'  '  Hein- 
rich  and  Lenore.'  He  also  edited  the  'Songs  of  Ireland,'  and  wrote 
some  other  works,  chiefly  legal.  He  recanted  his  early  opinions 
toward  the  end  of  his  life  and  became  a  police  magistrate  in  Dublin. 
He  died  Jan.  23,  1889. 

THE  SWORD. 

What  rights  the  brave? 

The  sword  I 
What  frees  the  slave? 

The  sword! 
What  cleaves  in  twain 
The  despot's  chain, 
And  makes  his  gyves  and  dungeons  vain? 

The  sword! 

CHORUS. 

Then  cease  thy  proud  task  never 
While  rests  a  link  to  sever! 

Guard  of  the  free, 

We  '11  cherish  thee. 
And  keep  thee  bright  for  ever  I 

What  checks  the  knave? 

The  sword! 
What  smites  to  save? 
The  sword ! 
What  wreaks  the  wrong 
Unpunished  long, 
At  last,  upon  the  guilty  strong? 
The  sword! 
149 

i 

*  • 


mo  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

CHORUS. 

Then  cease  thy  proud  task  never,  etc. 

What  shelters  Right? 

The  sword! 
What  makes  it  might? 

The  sword ! 
What  strikes  the  crown 
Of  tyrants  down. 
And  answers  with  its  Hash  their  frown? 

The  sword ! 

CHORUS. 

Then  cease  thy  proud  task  never,  etc 

Still  be  thou  true. 

Good  sword! 
We  '11  die  or  do, 

Good  sword! 
Leap  forth  to  light 
If  tvrants  smite. 
And  trust  our  arms  to  wield  thee  right, 

Good  sword! 

CHORUS. 

Yes!  cease  thy  proud  task  never 
While  rests  a  link  to  sever! 

CJuard  of  the  free. 

We'll  clierish  thee, 
And  keep  thee  bright  for  ever! 


TnE    MASSACRE    AT    DROGHEDA. 

The}'  knr'lt  around  the  cross  divine. 

The  iiiiiti'on  and  the  maid; 
They  bowed  before  redem})tion's  sign, 

And  foT-vcntly  tlicy  j)ra3'ed — 
Three  hundicd  fnir  ;iii(l  liclidfss  ones. 

Whose  ciinie  w;is  tills  nlone— 
Their  valiant  husbands,  sires,  and  sons 

Had  battled  for  their  own. 


arfJ  io  aabia  riJod  no  abr.  oJ  bio  ei;oinBiil 

io  bns  21BW  yn; 
labnt/  9iO£2?.crn  luf 
'oV  ni  ^rlqiul/" 


m^ 


DROGHEDA 

From  a  photograph 

This  famous  old  town  stands  on  both  sides  of  the 
rivtr  Boyne.  It  has  been  the  scene  of  many  wars  and  of 
much  bloodshed.  The  story  ot  the  awful  massacre  under 
Cromwell  is  vividly  told  by  Father  Denis  Murphy  in  Vol. 
VI.  of  Irish  Litkrature. 


MICHAEL    JOSEPH    BARRY.  151 

Had  battled  bravely,  but  in  vain — 

The  Saxon  won  tlie  figlit, 
And  Irish  corpses  strewed  the  j)lain 

Where  Valor  slept  with   Right. 
And  now  that  man  of  demon  guilt 

To  fated  Wexford  flew — 
The  red  blood  reeking  on  his  hilt 

Of  hearts  to  Erin  true! 

He  found  them  there — the  young,  the  old, 

The  maiden,  and  the  wife; 
Their  guardians  brave  in  death  were  cold, 

Who  dared  for  tliein  the  strife. 
They  prayed  for  mercy — God  on  high ! 

Before  thy  cross  they  prayed, 
And  ruthless  Cromwell  bade  them  die 

To  glut  the  Saxon  blade! 

Three  hundred  fell — the  stifled  prayer 

Was  quenched  in  women's  blood; 
Nor  youth  nor  age  could  move  to  spare 

From  slaughter's  crimson  flood. 
But  nations  keep  a  stern  account 

Of  deeds  that  tyrants  do ! 
And  guiltless  blood  to  Heaven  will  mount, 

And  Heaven  avenge  it  too! 


THE    FRENCH    REVOLUTION. 

Mr.  Editor, 

My  mother  being  a  Blackpool  woman.  I  wish  to  give  you 
the  first  news  of  what  happened  between  Louis  Philippe  and 
her  Grayshus  Majesty.  I  was  behind  a  curtain  listenin'  to 
the  dialogue  on  Friday  evening. 

"  My  dear  Vic,  ses  he, 
I  'm  mighty  sick,  ses  he. 
For  I  've  cut  my  stick,  ses  he. 
Tarnation  quick,  ses  he. 
From  the  divil's  breeze,  ses  he. 
At  the  Tooleyrees,  ses  he; 
For  the  blackguards  made,  ses  he, 
A  barricade,  ses  he. 


152  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

They  'ro  up  to  the  trade,  sos  be, 

Aud  1  was  afraid,  ses  lie, 

And  greatly   in  dread,  ses  he, 

I  'd  lose  my  head,  ses  he ; 

And  if  I   lost  that,  ses  lie, 

1  'd  have  no  place  for  my  hat,  ses  he. 

"Stop  awhile,  ses  she; 
Take  off  your  tile,  ses  she. 
You  're  come  a  peg  down,  ses  she. 
By  the  loss  of  your  crown,  ses  she. 

"Mille  j)ardon,  ses  he. 
For  keepiu'  it  on,  ses  he; 
But  my  head  isn't  right,  ses  he, 
Since  I  took  to  Hight,  ses  he; 
For  the  way  was  long,  ses  he. 
And  I  'm  not  over  sthrong,  ses  he. 

"  Indeed,  my  ould  buck,  ses  she. 
You  look  mighty  shuck,  ses  she. 


"You  may  say  I  am,  ses  he; 
I  'm  not  worth  a  damn,  ses  he, 
Till  I  get  a  dhram,  ses  be. 
And  a  cut  of  mate,  ses  be; 
For  I  'm  dead  bate,  ses  be. 
I  'm  as  cowld  as  ice,  ses  he. 

"  Never  say  it  twice,  ses  she ; 
I  Ml  get  you  a  slice,  ses  she, 
Of  something  nice,  ses  she; 
And  we  '11  make  up  a  bed,  ses  she, 
In  the  room  overhead,  ses  she. 


"I  like  a  matbrass,  ses  be. 
Or  a  pallyass,  ses  be; 
But  in  my  present  j)ass,  ses  he. 
Anything  of  the  kind,  ses  be, 
I  shouldn't  much  mind,  ses  be." 


MICHAEL   JOSEPH    BARRY.  153 

Here  a  grand  waither  dhressed  all  in  goold  brought  in  the 
ateables.  Her  INfajesty  helped  Looey  to  some  cowld  ham, 
which  he  tucked  in  as  if  he  hadn't  tasted  a  bit  since  he  left 
the  Tooleyrees.  By  degrees  he  lost  his  appetite  and  found 
his  tongue;  but  he  didn't  like  talking  while  the  waither  was 
there,  so  he  touched  her  Majesty,  and  ses  he  in  an  under- 
tone— 

"  Bid  that  flunkey  go,  ses  he, 
And  1  '11  let  you  know,  ses  he, 
About  my  overthrow,  ses  he." 

So  the  Queen  made  a  sign  with  her  hand,  and  the  flunkey 
tuck  himself  off  with  a  very  bad  grace,  as  if  he  'd  have  liked 
to  be  listening.    When  the  door  was  shut  Looey  went  on — 

"  'T  was  that  Guizot,  ses  he — 
That  chap  you  knew,  ses  he, 
When  we  were  at  Eu,  ses  he, 
At  our  interview,  ses  he. 

"  Is  that  thrue  ?  ses  she. 
I  thought  he  and  you,  ses  she, 
Were  always  as  thick,  ses  she, 

As— 

"  Don't  say   pickpockets,   Vic,   ses  he. 
Indeed,  we  wor  friends,  ses  he, 
And  had  the  same  ends,  ses  he. 
Always  in   view,  ses  he; 
But  we  little  knew,  ses  he, 
That  a  Paris  mob,  ses  he, 
Would  spoil  our  job,  ses  he. 
They  're  the  divil's  lads,  ses  he— 
What  you  call  Rads,  ses  he; 
But  your  Rads  sing  small,  ses  he, 
Before  powdher  and  ball,  ses  he. 
While  mine  don't  care  a  jot,  ses  he, 
For  round  or  grape  shot,  ses  he. 
Well,  those  chaps  of  mine,  ses  he. 
They  wanted  to  dine,  ses  he, 


154  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

And  io  raise  up  a  storm,  ses  he, 
About  jxottinp;  reform,  ses  he; 
Which   isn't  the  tiling,  ses  he, 
For  a  citizen  king,  ses  he, 
Or  a  well-ordered  state,  ses  he, 
To  tolerate,  ses  he. 
So  says  1  to  Guizot,  ses  he, 
We  must  sthrike  a  blow,  ses  he. 
Ses  Guizot,  You  're  right,  ses  he, 
For  they'll  never  light,  ses  he; 
They  *re  sure  to  be  kilt,  ses  he, 
By  them  forts  you  built,  ses  he, 
And  the  throo]»s  is  thrue,  ses  he. 
And  they'll  stand  Io  vou,  ses  he. 
Then  ses  I  to  Guizot,  ses  he. 
Proclaim  the  bancjuo,  ses  he. 
And  let  them  chaps  know,  ses  he. 
That  Keform  's  no  go,  ses  he. 
But  bad  luck  to  our  haste,  ses  he, 
For  stoppin'  the  faste,  ses  he. 
For  the  peojile  riz,  ses  he. 
And  that 's  how  it  is,  ses  he. 
That  you  find  me  here,  ses  he. 
At  this  time  of  year,  ses  he. 
Hard  uj)  for  a  bed,  ses  he. 
To  rest  njv  head,  ses  he. 

"Did  you  save  your  tin?  ses  she. 

"Did  1?  (with  a  grin),  ses  he. 
Faix,  it 's  I  that  did,  ses  he. 
For  I  had  it  hid,  ses  he. 
Lest  a   storm   should  burst,  ses  he, 
To  be  fit  for  the  worst,  ses  he." 

TTore  Looey  stopi)ed,  and  little  Lord  Johnny,  who  had  been 
ytcepin'  in  at  the  door,  walked  into  the  room,  just  as  the 
(iueen.  who  had  caught  sight  of  him,  jiut  up  her  finger  for  him 
to  come  in.     Looey  rose  up  to  meet  him. 

"  Are  you  there,  ses  he. 
My   little   I'remier?  ses  he. 
Gad!  you're  lookin'  ill,  ses  he. 


MICHAEL   J08EPII    BARRY.  155 

"  Troth,  1  am,  King  Pliil,  ses  he. 
Would  jou  cash  a  bill,  ses  he, 
For  a  couple  of  mi  lie?  ses  he. 
I  've  no  tiu  in  the  till,  ses  he. 

"  Good  night,  ses  Phil,  ses  he. 
I  've  a  cowld  in  my  head,  ses  he, 
And  I  '11  go  to  bed,  ses  he." 

And  he  walked  out  of  the  room  in  a  great  hurry,  leaving 
Lord  Johnny  in  a  great  foosther,  and  indeed  her  Majesty  didn't 
look  over  well  pleased;  but  there  the  matter  ended. 

P.S. — You  '11  hear  that  Looey  wasn't  in  London  at  all,  but 
you  may  thrust  to  the  thruth  of  the  above. 

Yours  to  command, 

THE    BOY    JONES. 

This  appeared  in  the  Cork  Southern  Reporter.  There  was  a  boy 
Jones,  who  had  been  found  concealed  in  Buckingham  Palace,  not 
with  criminal  intent  but  from  curiosity.  When  Louis  Philippe  fled 
from  France  in  1848  nothing  was  heard  of  him  for  some  days. 
While  all  the  world  was  wondering,  Barry  wrote  this  squib. 


WILLIAM  FRANCIS   BARRY. 
(1849 ) 

William  Francis  Barry,  D.D.,  Catholic  priest,  theologian,  and 
novelist,  was  born  April  21,  1849.  He  received  his  education  at 
Oscott  College  near  Birmingham  and  in  the  English  College  at 
Rome.  He  is  aB.D.  and  D.I),  of  the  Gregorian  University,  Rome; 
Avas  seventh  in  honors  at  his  matriculation  at  London  University, 
and  is  a  scholar  of  the  English  College  de  Urbe.  He  was  ordained 
in  St.  John  Lateran,  Rome;  studied  under  Cardinals  Franzelin  and 
Tarquini  and  the  famous  Perrone. 

He  was  present  during  the  Vatican  Council  and  taking  of  Rome, 
in  1870.  He  was  Vice-President  and  professor  of  philosophy  at 
Birmingham  Theological  College,  1873-77;  professor  of  divinity 
at  Oscott  College,  1877-80;  on  mission  in  Wolverhampton  in 
1882,  and  Avas  appointed  to  Dorchester,  1883.  He  delivered  addresses 
in  America  in  1893,  and  lectured  at  the  Royal  Institution  and  in 
many  parts  of  England.  In  1897  he  gave  a  centenary  address  on 
Burke,  in  London  and  Dublin. 

He  has  published  more  than  seventy  essays  in  periodicals :  '  The 
New  Antigone,'  1887;  '  The  Place  of  Dreams,'  1894;  '  The  Two  Stan- 
dards,'1898;  'ArdenMassiter,' 1900;  '  The  Wizard's  Knot,'  1901— 
romantic  novels;  'The  Papal  Monarchy,'  1902.  He  is  an  accom- 
phshed  linguist,  being  acquainted  with  the  French,  German,  Italian, 
Spanish,  Greek,  and  Latin  languages  and  literatures. 

A  MEETING   OF   ANAKCHISTS. 

From  '  The  New  Antigone.* 

It  was  the  larpje,  bare  committee-room,  which  we  remem- 
ber, in  the  decayed  house  at  Denzil  Lane,  where  Hippolyta 
and  Ivor  lield  their  first  conversation.  The  passage  was 
not  lighted,  and  Ivor,  leading  Rupert  in  the  dark,  had  to 
knock  twice  ere  he  gained  admission.  A  species  of  warder, 
wearing  a  red  sash  across  his  breast,  stood  inside,  jealously 
guanling  the  entrance.  On  opening  he  recognized  the 
engraver,  drew  back,  and  seenuMl  uncertain  whether  he 
slioubl  be  allowed  to  pass.  But  at  the  sight  of  Rupert 
closely  following  on  the  heels  of  his  friend  the  warder  put 
out  his  hand,  laying  it  rather  heavily  on  the  artist's  shoul- 
der, and  said  in  a  quick,  rough  undertone,  "What  do  you 
want  here?  "  Rupert  stood  j)erfectly  still.  Ivor,  just  look- 
ing at  the  doorkeeper,  said  two  or  three  words  and  held  out 

156 


WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARRY.  157 

a  scrap  of  paper.  Tlie  effect  was  instantaneous.  The  grim 
warder  drew  aside;  Kupert  passed  in;  and  tlie  two  friends, 
making  their  way  up  the  room,  seated  tliemselves,  by  Ivor's 
choice,  where  they  could  see  all  that  was  going  forward  and 
keep  an  eye  on  the  door. 

Rupert,  somewhat  roused  from  his  lethargy,  looked 
round  and  thought  he  had  never  been  in  such  a  place  be- 
fore. The  scene  resembled  a  night-school  rather  than  a 
Socialist  meeting.  The  great  windows  at  either  end  were 
closed  with  wooden  shutters  and  iron  bars;  three  jets  of  gas 
hanging  from  the  plastered  ceiling  threw  a  crude  light  on 
the  benches  occupied  by  some  thirty  or  forty  men,  who 
seemed,  by  their  dress  and  general  appearance,  to  belong 
to  the  steadier  sort  of  mechanics.  There  was  a  tribune,  or 
master's  pulpit,  at  the  upper  end  away  from  the  door, 
which  was  at  present  empty.  Near  it  was  the  table,  cov- 
ered with  green  baize,  at  which  Hippolyta  had  seated  her- 
self while  Ivor  uttered  his  thoughts  to  her  the  first  morning 
they  met.  But  Rupert  did  not  know  that  Hippolyta  had 
ever  been  in  the  room.  He  felt  almost  as  much  surprise 
here  as  at  the  Duke  of  Adullam's.  He  had  expected  a 
larger  meeting,  and  not  this  kind  of  people.  In  his  mind 
there  went  with  Socialism  something  squalid,  frowsy,  un- 
kempt, and  forlorn.  But  these  men  seemed  to  be  in  re- 
ceipt of  wages  enabling  them  to  dress  decently;  they  had 
an  educated  look ;  and  many  of  them  were  turning  over  the 
journals  or  reading  written  documents.  Among  them 
were  evidently  a  certain  number  of  foreigners.  They  all 
looked  up  on  the  entrance  of  Ivor  Mardol.  Seeing  Rupert, 
they  looked  inquiringly  at  one  another;  and  a  second  offi- 
cer, in  red  sash  like  the  doorkeeper,  came  up  and  asked  him 
who  he  was.  Rupert  pointed  to  Ivor;  again  the  scrap  of 
paper  was  shown,  again  the  magic  working  followed.  The 
men  bent  over  their  journals  and  documents.  There  was 
apparently  no  business  going  on,  or  it  had  not  begun. 

In  the  midst  of  the  silence  a  slight  young  man  went  from 
his  place  at  the  side  of  the  hall  into  the  pulpit,  carrying 
with  him  a  bundle  of  papers.  The  rest  laid  down  what  they 
were  reading,  and  threw  themselves  into  listening  atti- 
tudes. The  secretary,  if  such  he  was,  began  to  run  over 
what  seemed  an  interminable  list  of  meetings,  resolutions, 
and    subscriptions — a    recital    which,    tedious    though    it 


158  TRTSH    IJTERATURE. 

])n)ve(l  to  Rupert,  had  clearly  a  deep  interest  for  the  as- 
si'iiil)ly,  Ivor  himself  appearing  to  follow  it  point  by  point, 
^lore  than  once  the  reader  was  interrupted,  now  by  low 
earnest  murmurs  of  approbation,  and  now  by  marks  of  the 
reverse.  A  bvstander  would  have  said  that  in  this  commit- 
tee  of  anarchists  the  old  sections  of  the  Revolution  had  re- 
newed themselves.  Rut  the  artist,  weary  of  these  mo- 
notonous proceedings,  and  attending  but  little  to  the  hum 
of  conversation,  which  by  degrees  grew  louder,  could 
hardly  have  told  when  the  secretary  ended,  or  what  shape 
of  man  took  his  place  in  the  pulpit.  He  did  not  suppose 
Colonel  A'alence  would  haunt  assend)lies  of  this  species; 
and  Ivor's  friend  apparently  was  yet  to  arrive. 

From  such  stupor,  consequent  partly  on  the  illness  he 
was  feeling,  Rupert  awakened  at  the  sound  of  Ivor's  voice, 
lie  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  about.  His  friend  had 
arisen  in  his  place,  and  the  s])eaker  in  the  pulpit  had  come 
to  a  pause.    The  rest  were  dead  silent. 

"  Ay,"  said  Ivor,  with  a  fine  ring  of  scorn  in  his  accents, 
"  things  are  going  the  way  I  foretold.  But  they  shall  not 
without  one  more  protest  from  me.  After  that,  you  may 
do  with  me  as  you  like.  I  suppose  there  must  be  martyrs 
of  the  new  (lospel  as  there  were  of  the  old.  You,"  he  con- 
tinued, facing  the  man  in  the  pulpit,  "  are  preaching  as- 
sassination. You  tell  us  it  is  an  article  in  the  creed  of  an- 
archy. And  I  tell  you,  here,  not  for  the  first  time,  that 
it  is  no  article  in  the  creed  of  humanity." 

"  Sit  down,  can't  you?"  shouted  one  of  the  men  across 
the  room  ;  "  your  turn  '11  come  by  and  by.  Why  can't  you 
let  the  man  speak?  " 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Ivor.  "  It  is  out  of  order,  I  sup- 
pose, to  protest  that  our  society  is  not  a  company  of  assas- 
sins." And  he  sat  down,  flushed  and  excited.  Rupert 
pressed  his  hand. 

The  other  took  up  his  interrupted  speech;  and  the  artist 
for  the  first  time  heard  a  sermon,  in  well-chosen  language 
and  with  apposite  illustrations,  on  the  text  of  dynamite. 
A  stern  gospel,  which  the  fanatic  standing  before  them 
clearly  believed  in.  He  was  a  thoughtful,  mild-looking 
man,  young,  well  educated,  and  fluent  in  address,  a  for- 
f-igiicr,  or  of  foreign  descent.  lie  was  much  applauded, 
though  not  by  all ;  and  he  knew  when  to  leave  off.    The  im- 


WILLIA3I  FRANCIS  BARRY.  159 

prossion  made  was  deep  and  solemn,  like;  that  which  a  Hi<^h 
Calvinist  might  have  produced  in  his  epoch  by  proclaiming 
that  hardly  any  one  present  would  be  saved,  and  by  adding 
that  the  more  of  them  were  lost  the  greater  would  be  God's 
glory.  As  soon  as  he  turned  to  come  down  from  the  pulpit, 
Ivor  stood  up  again.  Voices  cried,  "  To  the  front,  to  the 
front";  but  he  did  not  stir.  The  noise  died  away.  Look- 
ing very  steadily  at  the  brethren  who  crowded  nearer  to 
him,  he  said,  "  I  doubt  that  I  belong  to  3'ou,  and  I  will  not 
go  into  your  tribune." 

There  was  a  strong  murmur  of  disapproval,  which 
seemed  to  loosen  his  tongue. 

"  How  should  I  belong  to  you,"  he  cried,  "  when  you  will 
take  warning  neither  by  the  Revolution  nor  by  the  Govern- 
ments, when  you  are  mad  enough  to  dream  of  creating  a 
new  world  by  the  methods  which  have  ruined  the  old? 
You  disown  your  greatest  teachers.  You — I  say  you — are 
restoring  absolute  government,  the  Council  of  Ten,  the 
Inquisition,  and  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety.  You,  as 
much  as  any  king,  or  priest,  or  aristocrat,  stand  in  the  way 
of  progress." 

There  was  a  great  outcry.  "  Proof,  proof,"  exclaimed 
some ;  "  renegade,"  "  reactionary,"  "  traitor,"  came  hurled 
from  the  lips  of  others,  while  Ivor  stood  unmoved  amid  the 
commotion  he  had  excited.  He  smiled  disdainfully,  and 
lifted  his  hand  to  command  silence,  but  for  a  time  it  seemed 
as  if  the  meeting  would  break  up  in  confusion.  There  were 
two  or  three,  however,  bent  on  restoring  order  and  hearing 
what  he  had  to  say.  The  tumult  grew  less,  and  Ivor,  as 
soon  as  he  could  make  himself  audible,  exclaimed,  "  Do 
you  want  proof?  It  is  waiting  for  you.  I  will  prove  my- 
self no  renegade  by  showing  who  is.  I  say  that  this  lodge 
was  founded  on  our  faith  in  humanitv.  Its  creed,  when  I 
joined  it,  condemned  regicide,  assassination,  and  private 
war.  It  would  have  condemned  dynamite,  had  that  hellish 
weapon  been  invented.  I  say  again  that  I  am  a  son  of  the 
Revolution,  which  has  made  freedom  possible  and  will 
make  it  a  universal  fact,  if  we  and  the  like  of  us  do  not 
throw  it  back  a  thousand  years.  What  are  my  proofs? 
you  ask.  They  are  illustrious  and  decisive  parallels ;  they 
are  the  principles  on  which  alone  a  scientific  and  progres- 
sive reconstruction  of  society  can  be  attempted.     Do  you 


160  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

believe  that  Voltaire  or  (loetbe  would  have  eountenanced 
re<?iei(le  while  the  priuting-press  remained?  Would  Rous- 
seau have  taught  fimile  the  Gospel  of  dynamite?  Is  Victor 
Hugo  a  mere  and  sheer  anarchist?  " 

"  Bah,"  said  a  thickset,  deep-toned  Gorman,  interrupt- 
ing him.    "  Why  quote  men  of  letters?  " 

'*  Because  they  are  the  priests  and  prophets  without 
whom  no  revolution  could  have  existed,"  returned  Ivor; 
"  because  they  see  the  scope,  and  measure  the  path,  of  our 
endeavoring;  because  it  is  by  their  methods,  and  not  by 
vours,  that  we  shall  win." 

"  Slow  methods,"  retorted  another,  "  while  the  people 
are  starving." 

"  Dynamite  will  not  help  them  to  live,"  said  Ivor.  "  You 
may  blow  up  Winter  Palaces  and  kill  Emperors  with  it. 
Yon  will  not  gain  the  intelligent,  or  the  men  of  science,  or 
the  good  anywhere,  by  the  sound  of  its  explosion." 

''  We  want  a  mental  and  spiritual  democracy  as  well  as 
the  rest,"  interrupted  a  third;  "  we  care  not  a  jot  for  aris- 
tocracies of  intelligence  or  benevolence.  That  is  why  we 
call  ourselves  Sparta." 

"  I  know,"  said  Ivor,  his  face  kindling;  "but  your  new 
Sparta  is  worse  than  the  old.  Yon  aim  at  a  democracy! 
Yes,  at  one  which  seen  from  behind  is  despotism.  You  will 
not  tolerate  dillerences  of  opinion;  they  must  be  abolished 
with  the  dagger.  That  is  your  Inquisition,  You  make  a 
slave  of  every  man  that  joins  you,  and  punish  his  so-called 
infractions  of  the  rule  with  death.  That  is  your  Council  of 
Ten,  You  decree  the  destruction  of  the  innocent,  the  blow- 
ing-up of  cities,  the  plunder  of  the  poor  by  your  howling 
rabble.  That  is  Saint  Bartholomew  and  the  Committee 
of  Tublic  Safety,  Oh,  my  friends,  you  need  not  lose  pa- 
tience," h(;  went  on,  as  the  interru])tious  began  again. 
"  When  I  have  spoken  to  the  end  there  will  be  time  enough 
to  kill  me.  But  this,  in  the  face  of  your  threatenings,  I 
repeat,  that  you  have  forgotten  the  very  purpose  of  the 
Bevolution." 

"  Have?  we?  "  was  the  cry.    "  Let  us  hear  it,  then." 

"  Kead  it  in  Victor  Hugo,"  he  replied,  "  if  nowhere  else. 
The  Revolution  menus  liberty  and  light.  It  means  ecjuality 
in  the  best  Hiiiigs,  the  only  lliings  worth  having — love  and 
justice  and  truth.     It  meanw  reason,  not  dynamite.     Ah, 


WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARRY.  161 

my  brothers,"  said  Ivor,  his  voice  softening,  "  how  conies  it 
that  we  have  lost  faith  in  the  heart,  the  mind,  the  brain  of 
Humanity?  \Vliy  must  we  turn,  like  wild  beasts,  to  our 
fanj^s  and  our  claws,  to  the  x^oison  of  the  rattlesnake  and 
the  teeth  of  the  tij-er?  " 

"Why?"  exclaimed  one  who  had  not  yet  spoken;  "be- 
cause we  are  fighting;-  with  tigers  and  rattlesnakes.  How 
else  are  we  to  conquer?  " 

"  Your  conception  of  humanity,  then,"  said  Ivor,  "  does 
not  include  the  governing  classes.  Have  all  revolutionists 
been  ignorant?  have  all  sprung  from  the  people?  You  in- 
vert the  pyramid;  but  your  anarchy  is  only  aristocracy 
turned  upside  down.  You  want  the  guillotine,  the  infernal 
machine,  the  flask  of  nitroglycerin  as  the  Governments 
want  their  hangman  and  their  headsman.  Oh,  worthy  suc- 
cessor of  Robespierre,  I  congratulate  you." 

"  Robespierre  was  the  greatest  and  holiest  of  revolu- 
tionists, always  excepting  Marat,"  answered  the  other  sul- 
lenly. 

Ivor  was  not  to  be  daunted.  He  went  on  with  his 
theme.  "  How  did  Robespierre  differ  from  Torquemada?  " 
he  inquired.  "  Their  views  of  the  next  world  might  not  be 
the  same,  but  they  were  pretty  much  of  a  mind  in  dealing 
with  this.  If  the  Jesuits  were  regicides  on  principle,  were 
the  Jacobins  any  better?  A  fine  revolution,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  when  you  change  the  men,  but  carry  out  the  measures 
more  obstinately  than  before;  when  you  snatch  the  people 
from  the  lion's  mouth  to  fling  them  to  jackals  and  hyenas ! 
You  tell  me  that  force  alone  will  conquer  force.  It  was  not 
by  force  that  Christianity  won  its  way  to  Empire.  When 
it  took  up  the  sword  it  struck,  indeed,  a  deadly  blow,  but 
into  its  own  heart.  Are  we  going  to  repeat  the  mistake, 
and  abolish  the  principles  of  '89  by  the  guillotine  of  '93? 
Conquer  force  by  force?  Not  in  this  battle,  be  3^ou  sure 
of  that.  It  is  a  battle  against  darkness,  and  only  light  will 
scatter  it.  Therefore  I  conclude,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice 
and  speaking  with  impassioned  earnestness,  "  that  the  reso- 
lution which  would  commit  our  lodge  to  a  policy  of  dyna- 
mite is  nothing  short  of  apostasy  from  the  principles  on 
which  it  was  founded;  and  I,  for  one,  will  dare  or  endure 
the  utmost  rather  than  assent  to  it." 

"  What  will  you  put  in  its  stead?  "    The  question  rang 
11 


»<>2  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

out  clear  through  the  room,  drawing  every  eye  towards  the 
speaker,  who  had  come  in  whih'  Ivor  was  replying  to  the 
interruptions  of  his  opponents.  Ue  was  a  tall  man, 
wrai)]H'd  in  a  cloak  witli  wliich  until  now  he  had  covered 
ins  face  wliere  he  sat  by  the  door.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice 
Ivor  gave  a  start.  Ivupert,  looking  that  way,  saw  the  man 
rise  from  his  seat  and  press  towards  the  tribune.  He  let 
his  cloak  fall,  and  from  that  moment  the  artist's  eyes  were 
riveted  on  his  pale  and  haughty  countenance.  Again,  as 
at  the  beginning  of  Ivor's  speech,  there  was  complete  si- 
lence, and  the  men  present  looked  at  one  another  in  expec- 
tation of  something  unusual.  Ivo"r,  standing  up  while  the 
stranger  passed,  made  no  attempt  to  resume.  The  stillness 
became  intense. 

"  You  are  debating  a  question  to-night,"  said  the 
stranger,  as  he  looked  at  them  from  the  tribune  he  had 
mounted,  "  on  which  the  future  of  the  world  hangs.  Let 
me  help  you  to  solve  it.  All  the  lodges  in  Euro])e  have  been 
debating  it  too,  since  a  certain  afternoon  when  the  tele- 
graph brought  news  from  Petersburg.  The  French  Revo- 
lution has  become  cosmopolitan;  the  nations  are  on  the 
march,  and  they  must  have  their  '93.  Anarchy  first,  then 
order.  When  France  challenged  the  kings  to  battle,  it 
Hung  them  the  head  of  a  king.  We  have  done  more;  we  are 
going  to  pull  down  the  Europe  of  the  kings,  with  all  its 
wealth,  feudalism,  ranks,  and  classes,  till  we  have  swept 
the  place  clean.  And,"  he  paused,  "  our  gage  of  battle  is 
the  shattered  body  of  the  Tsar." 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  how  the  applause  went 
now.  It  was  violent  and  vociferous.  The  stranger  hardly 
seemed  to  notice  it.  ^^'hen  silence  was  restored  he  went  on 
in  a  musing  voice,  low  but  exceedingly  distinct,  as  if  speak- 
ing: to  himself.  "  When  I  was  a  bov  1  too  had  mv  dreams," 
he  said,  and  In;  glanced  towards  Ivor.  "  I  believed  in 
Goethe  and  Voltaire,  in  Victor  Hugo  and  the  sentimental- 
ists. I  thought  the  struggle  was  for  light.  I  see  it  is  for 
bread.  Look  out  in  tlie  streets  to-night  and  consider  the 
faces  that  pass.  Beyond  tliese  walls,"  his  voice  sank  lower, 
but  it  was  wonderfully  clear  throughout,  "  lies  the  anarchy 
of  London.  Rags,  hunger,  nakedness,  tears,  filth,  incest, 
s(|ualor,  decay,  disease,  the  human  lazar-house,  the  black 
death  eating  its  victims  piecemeal, — that  is  three-fourths 


WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARRY.  16S 

of  the  London  lying  at  tliese  doors.  Whose  care  is  it?  Nay, 
who  cares  for  it?  The  pih'S  of  the  royal  palace  are  laid 
deep  in  a  lake  of  blood.  And  you  will  leave  it  standing? 
You  talk  of  light;  you  prefer  sentiment  to  dynamite  and 
assassination  !    What  a  meek  Christian  you  are !  " 

"  No,"  returned  Ivor,  with  heightened  color  in  his  face, 
"  I  am  neither  meek  nor  a  Christian.  The  lake  of  blood  is 
a  terror  to  me  as  to  you.  That  is  not  the  question.  You 
know  me  too  well  to  imagine  it,"  he  said  almost  liercely. 
"  The  question  is  whether  a  second  anarchy  will  cure  a 
first.  I  say  no.  I  prefer  sentiment  to  assassination?  Very 
well,  why  should  I  not?  But  I  prefer  reason  and  right 
even  to  sentiment.  I  appeal  to  what  is  deepest  in  the  heart 
of  man." 

The  stranger  laughed  unpleasantly  and  resumed,  as 
though  dismissing  the  argument.  "  I  have  seen  battles," 
he  said,  "  in  which  there  were  heroism,  and  madness,  and 
the  rush  of  armies  together,  and  the  thunder  of  cannon, 
and  wild,  raging  cries  in  the  artillery  gloom,  enough  to 
intoxicate  a  man  with  the  blood}^  splendors  of  war.  But 
I  never  beheld  anything  more  heroic  or  glorious " — he 
smiled,  his  voice  fell,  and  he  gave  a  long,  peculiar  glance 
down  the  hall — "  than  the  overture  to  our  great  enterprise. 
It  cost  many  days  to  tliink  it  out;  it  was  accomplished  in  a 
moment."  Then,  in  the  strange,  musing  tone  of  one  that 
has  a  vision  before  him,  "  I  saw  him  stagger,  lean  his  arm 
against  the  parapet,  and  fall,  shattered  as  with  a  thunder- 
bolt. It  was  not  the  death  of  a  man;  it  was  the  annihila- 
tion of  a  tyranny !  " 

"  And  the  springing  up  of  a  fresh  tyranny  from  his 
l)lood,"  cried  Ivor,  unable,  amid  the  cheering  of  the  others, 
to  contain  himself. 

"  Ah,  it  was  a  fine  sight,"  continued  the  speaker,  as 
though  he  had  not  been  interrupted,  "  and  new  in  its  kind. 
The  great  White  Tsar  has  often  been  murdered — by  his 
wife,  his  son,  his  brother;  Nicholas  committed  suicide,  and 
so  did  Alexander  the  First.  But  never  until  now  have  the 
people  done  justice  on  their  executioner." 

Then  in  the  same  quiet  voice,  where  passion  was  so 
concentrated  that  it  gave  only  a  dull  red  intensity  of  ex- 
pression, but  none  of  those  lyric  cries  that  lift  up  the  soul, 
he  recited,  without  naming  person  or  place,  the  tragedy  of 


164  /AV;SfZ7    LITERATURE. 

which  he  liad  been  a  witness  and  one  of  the  prime  movers. 
No  sound  of  protest  came  while  he  was  s])eaking.  The 
audience  hunji'  spellbound  on  his  words;  and  the  somber, 
sanguinary  picture  unrolled  itself  in  all  its  dreadfulness 
before  their  vision.  Like  a  traj^ic  messeni!,er,  he  told  the 
tale  jiraphically,  yet  as  thoujih  he  had  no  part  in  it;  but  the 
conviction,  unanimous  in  that  meetin«!:,  of  the  share  he  had 
taken  added  a  covert  fear,  a  wonder  not  unmixed  with 
somethin«>-  almost  loathsome,  as  the  man  stood  there,  his 
hands  clean,  but  the  scent  of  blood  clinj;inf>-  to  his  raiment. 
Ivor  listened,  his  head  bowed  down,  motionless.  Rupert 
never  once  turnc^l  his  eyes  from  the  stranajer,  who  moved 
ah)ni!:  the  lines  of  the  story  swiftly,  (piietly,  painting  with 
lurid  tints,  and  not  pausing  till  he  had  shown  the  mangled 
remains  of  the  victim  wrapped  in  his  bloody  shroud. 

''  That  was  not  all  the  blood  si)ilt  in  the  tragedy,"  be 
concluded.  "  We,  too,  lost  our  soldiers,  but  they  were 
willing  to  die.  And  now  that  you  have  seen  the  deed 
tlirough  mv  eves,  iudge  whether  it  was  riuhtlv  done." 

"  Stay,"  said  Ivor,  risijig  again,  and  in  his  agitation  lean- 
ing heavily  upon  Ivupert's  shoulder,  "  before  you  judge  let 
me  ask  on  what  princi])les  your  verdict  is  to  be  founded. 
Will  you  take  those  of  the  Revolution,  or  return  to  those  of 
Absolutism?  " 

"■  The  Revolution,  the  Revolution,"  cried  many  voices. 

"  One  of  them,"  returned  the  young  man,  "  is  fraternity. 
Where  did  his  murderers  show  pity  to  the  Tsar?  Another 
is  humanity,  to  employ  the  arms  of  reason  to  enlighten 
blindness,  not  strike  it  with  the  sword.  ]Must  war  be  per- 
l»etual,  or  where  is  retaliation  to  cease?  I  have  always 
thought  that  j)ardon,  light,  and  love  were  the  watchwords 
of  our  cause;  and  I  looked  forward  to  the  day  when  men 
should  live  in  peace  with  one  another.  To  be  a  man,  I 
understood,  was  to  bear  a  charmed  life,  on  wliich  no  other 
man  should  lay  a  daring  hand.  ^Iur<ler,  I  was  told,  is 
sacrilege.  Am  I  now  to  unlearn  all  these  truths,  and  join 
the  crusade  of  dynaiiiite-throwei's  instead  of  the  crusade 
of  reason?  That  is  tlie  counter-revolution  indeed.  I,  for 
one,  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Take  my  vote,  which 
condemns  anarchy,  whether  in  the  heights  or  in  the  depths, 
and  let  me  go." 


ROBERT  BELL. 

(1800—1867.) 

Robert  Bell  was  born  at  Cork  in  1800.  He  was  educated  at  Trinity- 
College,  Dublin,  where  he  originated  the  Dublin  HiBtorical  Society. 
He  settled  in  I.ondi^n  in  1S28,  and  soon  became  editor  of  The  Atlas, 
then  one  of  tlio  largest  London  weeklies,  wliicli  he  long  conducted 
with  success.  He  contributed  '  The  History  of  Russia '  and  '  The 
Lives  of  English  Poets'  to  Lardu<n-'s  'Cabinet  Cyclopedia.'  He 
assisted  Bulwer  and  Dr.  Lardner  in  establishing  Tlie  Monthly  Chron- 
icle and  became  its  editor. 

He  wrote  '  The  Life  of  Canning,'  'Wayside  Pictures  through  France, 
Belgium,  and  Holland,' tln-ee  plays,  and  two  novels;  but  his  best 
work,  an  annotated  edition  of  the  English  Poets  from  Chaucer  to 
Cowper,  he  left  incomplete.  Later  in  life  he  edited  The  Home  News. 
He  became  interested  also  in  spiritualism,  and  contributed  papers 
on  'Table-rapping'  to  the  Cornhill  Magazine.  He  was  a  prominent 
member  of  '  The  Literary  Fund.' 

GLOUCESTER   LODGE. 

From  '  The  Life  of  Canning.' 

RaneLigb  was  in  its  meridian  glory  about  the  middle  of 
the  ei<;bteenth  century.  Tbe  crowds  of  people  it  drew  west- 
ward, streaming  along  tbe  roads  on  borseback  and  afoot, 
suggested  to  some  enterprising  spectator  tbe  manifest  want 
of  a  place  of  balf-way  entertainment  tbat  migbt  tempt  tbe 
tired  pleasure-bunter  to  rest  a  while  on  bis  way  home,  or, 
perhaps,  entice  bim  from  tbe  prosecution  of  bis  remoter 
expedition  on  bis  way  out.  Tbe  spot  was  well  cbosen  for 
tbe  execution  of  tbis  sinister  design.  It  lay  between 
Rrompton  and  Kensington,  just  far  enougb  from  town  to 
make  it  a  pleasant  resting-point  for  tbe  pedestrian,  and 
near  enough  to  Ranelagb  to  make  it  a  formidable  rival. 
Sometimes  of  a  summer's  evening  there  migbt  be  beard  tbe 
voices  of  brass  instruments,  coming  singing  in  tbe  wind 
over  tbe  beads  of  the  gay  groups  tbat  were  flaunting  on  tbe 
highroad,  or  tbrougb  tbe  fields  on  tbeir  excursion  to  Rane- 
lagb ;  and  sometimes,  decoyed  by  tbe  sound,  they  woubl 
follow  it,  thinking  tliey  lia<l  mistaken  tlie  path,  and  never 
discover  tbeir  mistake  until  they  found  themselves  in  tbe 
bosky  recesses  of  Florida  Gardens. 

165 


16G  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Florida  Gardous,  laid  out  in  the  maimer  of  TJanelagli 
and  Vauxhall,  and  the  Mulberry  Garden  of  old,  tlonrished 
about  sixty  years  a<;-o :  after  that  time,  the  place  fell  into 
"waste  ar.d.  uej;leet,  altli()U|i,h  the  site  was  agreeable  and 
even  picturesque  in  its  arraniienients. 

It  was  boujjht  by  the  Duchess  of  Gloucester,  who  built  a 
handsome  residence  upon  it,  which,  being  in  the  Italian 
style,  was  at  tirst  called  Villa  Maria,  but  subsequently,  in 
conseiiuence  of  th(»  duchess  making  the  house  her  coustant 
resort  in  the  summer  months,  became  generally  known  by 
the  name  of  Gloucester  Lodge.  Her  Royal  Highness  died 
here  in  1807,  and  Mr.  Canning  purchased  her  interest  in 
the  estate  from  her  daughter,  the  Princess  Sophia. 

It  was  in  this  charming  retreat,  profoundly  still, 

' '  With  overarching  elms, 
And  violet  banks  where  sweet  dreams  brood — " 

that  ^Ir.  Canning,  during  the  long  interval  which  now 
elaj)sed  befctre  he  returned  to  office,  passed  the  greater  part 
of  his  leisure.  We  avail  ourselves  of  this  interval  of  re- 
j)()se  to  group  together,  with  a  disregard  for  chronological 
unity,  which  we  hope  the  reader  will  not  be  disinclined  to 
tolerate,  a  few  waifs  and  strays  of  personal  and  domestic 
interest,  otherwise  inadmissible  to  an  audience  without 
risk  of  intrusion.  There  are  parentheses  of  ideal  fancy  and 
mcmoi-y-gossip  in  every  man's  life — wet  days  when  he  turns 
over  old  letters  at  the  fireside — or  indolent  sunny  days, 
when  he  can  do  nothing  but  bask  in  the  golden  mists  and 
run  the  round  of  his  youth  over  again  in  his  imagination. 
Such  lazy  houi-s  may  b(;  fairly  represented  by  a  few  indul- 
gent pages  of  disjointed  memorabilia. 

Tlic  grounds  of  Gloucester  Lodge  were  shut  in  by  trees. 
All  was  seclusion  the  moment  the  gates  closed.  "The 
drawing-ioom,"  says  Mr.  Kush,  "  opened  on  a  i)ortico  from 
which  you  walked  out  upon  one  of  those  smoothly  shaven 
lawns  whirli  Johnson,  speaking  of  Pope's  poetry,  likens  to 
velvet."  Here  Mr.  Canning  received  the  most  distinguished 
fiersons  of  his  time,  Gh)U(('stcr  Lodg(i  ac(piiring,  un;ler  the 
influence  of  his  accomplished  taste,  the  highest  celebrity 
for  its  intellectual  reunions.  His  own  feelings  always  led 
liim  to  prefer  home  parties,  and,  as  has  already  be(»n  no- 
ticed, he  rarely  went  abroad,  except  among  close  friends 


ROBERT   BELL.  167 

or  on  ocoasions  of  ccromony.  His  private  life  was  not 
merely  blameless,  but  quite  admirable;  he  was  idolized  by 
his  family;  and  yet,  says  a  noble  contemporary,  such  was 
the  ij^norauce  or  malevolence  of  the  paragraph  writers, 
that  he  was  described  as  a  ''diner-out." 

The  wit  which  sparkled  at  these  entertainments  was  of 
the  highest  order:  but  there  was  something  even  better 
than  wit — a  spirit  of  enjoyment,  gay,  genial,  and  playful. 
Mr.  Rush  gives  us  an  amusing  account  of  a  scene  which 
took  place  at  a  dinner  at  Gloucester  Lodge,  immediately 
after  the  breaking  up  of  Parliament.  Several  mend)ers  of 
the  diplomatic  corps  were  present.  Canning,  Huskisson, 
and  Kobinson  were  like  birds  let  out  of  a  cage.  Th(^re  was 
a  great  deal  of  sprightly  small-talk,  and,  after  sitting  a 
long  time  at  table.  Canning  proposed  that  they  should  play 
at  "  Twenty  Questions."  They  had  never  heard  of  this 
game,  which  consisted  in  putting  twenty  questions  to  find 
out  the  object  of  your  thoughts,  something  to  be  selected 
within  certain  prescribed  limits.  It  was  arranged  that  Mr. 
Canning,  assisted  by  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  was 
to  ask  the  questions,  and  Mr.  Rush,  assisted  by  Lord  Greu- 
ville,  was  to  give  the  answers — the  representatives  of,  prob- 
ably, nearly  all  the  mouarchs  of  Europe,  and  the  principal 
ministers  of  England,  watching  the  result  in  absolute  sus- 
pense. The  secret  was  hunted  through  a  variety  of  dexter- 
ous shifts  and  evasions,  until  Canning  had  at  last  ex- 
hausted his  twenty  questions.  "He  sat  silent  for  a  minute 
or  two,"  says  Mr.  Rush;  ''then,  rolling  his  rich  eye  about, 
and  with  his  countenance  a  little  anxious,  and,  in  an  ac- 
cent by  no  means  over-confident,  he  exclaimed,  'I  think 
it  must  be  the  wand  of  the  Lord  High  Steward! '  "  and  it 
was  even  so.  A  burst  of  approbation  followed  his  success, 
and  the  diplomatic  people  pleasantly  observed  that  they 
must  not  let  him  ask  them  too  many  questions  at  the  For- 
eign Office,  else  he  might  find  out  every  secret  they  had ! 

But  Mr.  Canning  was  not  always  in  such  glorious  moods 
after  dinner.  His  animal  spirits  sometimes  sank  under 
the  weight  of  his  public  responsibilities. 

Rush  was  dining  with  him  one  day,  when  he  held  the 
seals  of  the  Foreign  Office,  and  the  conversation  happen- 
ing to  turn  upon  Swift,  he  desired  Mr.  Planta  to  take  down 
'  Gulliver's  Travels '  and  read  the  account  of  the  storm  on 


IHS  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

till'  passji'it'  to  Krobdiiiu'iiaji:,  so  remarkable  for  its  nautical 
aecuraey.  It  describes  the  sailors,  when  "  the  sea  broke 
straiiiie  and  danueions,  hauling;  otf  the  lan^'ard  of  the 
v,hii):staff,  and  hvlpiiuj  the  iiuiii  at  the  liclmy  Canning 
sat  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then,  in  a  rever3'^,  re- 
peated several  times,  "  And  helped  the  man  at  the  helm — 
and  helped  the  man  at  the  helm!  " 

On  another  occasion,  Mr.  Kush  takes  us  after  dinner 
into  the  drawinji-room,  where  some  of  the  company  found 
pastime  in  turniui;  over  the  leaves  of  caricatures  bound 
in  large  volumes.  Thev  went  back  to  the  French  Revolu- 
tionary  period.  Kings,  princes,  cabinet  ministers,  members 
of  Parliament,  everybody  figured  in  them.  It  was  a  kind 
of  history  of  England,  in  caricature,  for  tive-and-twenty 
years.  Need  I  add  that  our  at-complished  host  was  on 
many  a  jiage?  lie  stood  by.  Now  and  then  he  threw  in 
a  word,  gi^■ing  new  point  to  the  scenes.  Mr.  Rush  does  not 
ai»pear  to  have  been  aware  that  these  volumes  of  cari- 
catures contained  the  works  of  the  famous  (lilray,  an 
artist  of  coarse  mind,  but  of  rapid  invention,  great  humor, 
an<l  original  genius.  Oilray  helped  very  materially  to 
sustain  ^Ir.  Canning's  popularity,  if  he  did  not  actually 
extend  and  improve  it.  Mr.  Canning  frequently  gave  him 
valuable  suggestions,  which  he  worked  out  with  unfailing 
tact  and  whimsicality,  making  it  a  point  of  honor,  as  well 
as  of  gratitu<le  and  admiration,  to  give  Mr.  Canning  in 
return,  on  all  occasions,  an  advantageous  position  in  his 
designs.  The  importance  of  having  the  great  caricaturist 
of  (he  day  on  his  side  is  nearly  as  great  to  a  public  man, 
especially  to  one  assailed  by  envy  and  detraction,  as  that 
ascribed  by  Swift  to  l)allads  of  a  nation.  Gilray  always 
turned  the  laugh  against  ^Ir.  Canning's  opponents,  and 
never  forgot  to  disjjlay  liis  friend  and  patron  in  an  attitude 
tl)at  carried  off  the  applause  of  the  spectators.  In  one  of 
liis  sketches  he  represents  31r.  Canning  aloft  in  the  chariot 
of  Anti-Jacobinism,  radiant  with  gloi-y,  driving  the  sans 
fiilottc  mol>  belore  him;  nor  did  Mr.  Canning,  on  the 
other  liand.  omit  any  opportunity  of  drawing  Oilray  into 
favorable  notice.  In  the  satire  upon  Addington,  called 
'  Tlie  Grand  Consulation,'  Cilray's  caricature  of  "Dra- 
matic Royalty,  or,  tlie  Patriotic  Courage  of  Sherry  An- 
drew," is  particularly  alluded  to  in  the  following  verse: 


ROBERT    BELL.  169 

"  And  instead  of  the  jack-pudding  blustei"  of  Sherry, 
And  his  '  dagger  of  lath  '  and  his  speeches  so  merry! 
Let  us  bring  to  the  field — every  foe  to  appal — 
Aldini's  galvanic  deceptions,  and  all 
The  sleight-of-hand  tricks  of  Conjuror  Val." 

Canninjjj's  passion  for  literature  entered  into  all  his 
pursuits.  It  colored  his  whole  life.  Every  moment  of 
leisure  was  given  up  to  books.  lie  and  IMtt  were  passion- 
ately fond  of  the  classics,  and  we  find  them  together  of  an 
evening',  after  a  dinner  at  Pitt's,  poring  over  some  old 
Grecian  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room,  while  the  rest 
of  the  company  are  dispersed  in  conversation.  Fox  had 
a  similar  love  of  classical  literature,  but  his  wider  sympa- 
thies embraced  a  class  of  works  in  which  Pitt  never  ap- 
pears to  have  exhibited  any  interest.  Fox  was  a  devourer 
of  novels,  and  into  this  region  Mr.  Canning  entered  with 
gusto.  In  English  writings,  his  judgment  was  pure  and 
strict;  and  no  man  was  a  more  perfect  master  of  all  the 
varieties  of  composition.  He  was  the  first  English  minister 
who  banished  the  French  language  from  our  diplomatic 
correspondence,  and  vindicated  before  Europe  the  copi- 
ousness and  dignity  of  our  native  tongue. 

He  had  a  high  zest  for  the  early  vigorous  models  in  all 
styles,  and  held  in  less  estimation  the  more  ornate  and  re- 
fined. Writing  to  Scott  about  the  '  Lady  of  the  Lake,' 
he  says  tliat,  on  a  repeated  perusal,  he  is  more  and  more  de- 
lighted with  it;  but  that  he  wishes  he  could  induce  him  to 
try  the  effect  of  a  "  more  full  and  sweeping  style  " — to 
present  himself  "  in  a  Drydenic  habit."  His  admiration 
of  Dryden,  whom  he  pronounced  to  be  "  the  perfection  of 
harmony";  and  his  preference  of  that  poet  of  gigantic 
mould  over  the  melodists  of  the  French  school,  may  be 
suggested  as  an  evidence  of  the  soundness  and  strength 
of  his  judgment. 

Yet  it  is  remarkable  that,  with  this  broad  sense  of  great 
faculties  in  others,  he  was  himself  fastidious  to  excess 
about  the  slightest  turns  of  expression.  He  would  correct 
his  speeches,  and  amend  their  verbal  graces,  till  he  nearly 
polished  out  the  original  spirit.  He  was  not  singular  in 
this.  Burke,  whom  he  is  said  to  have  closely  studied,  did 
the  same.  Sheridan  always  prepared  his  speeches;  the 
highly  wrought  passages  in  the  speech  on  Hastings'  im- 


170  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

peachment  were  written  beforeliaiid  and  coininitted  to 
iiu'inory;  and  the  ditfereuees  were  so  marked  that  the 
audience  conhl  readily  distiujiiiish  between  the  extempor- 
aneous i)assaiies  and  those  that  were  premeditated. 
^Ir.  Canninii'y  alterations  were  frequent!}^  so  minute  and 
extensive  that  the  printers  found  it  easier  to  recompose 
the  nuitter  afresh  in  type  than  to  correct  it.  This  dif- 
ficulty of  choice  in  diction  sometimes  sprint's  from 
rcniharras  dcs  ricli esses,  but  oftener  from  poverty  of  re- 
s<nirces,  and  j;enerally  indicates  a  class  of  intellect  which 
is  more  occupied  with  costume  than  ideas.  IJut  there  are 
three  instances  which  set  all  i)opular  notions  on  this  ques- 
tion of  verbal  fastidiousness  by  the  ears;  for  certainly 
Hnrke,  Canninji',  and  Sheri(hin  were  men  of  capacious 
talents,  and  two  of  them,  at  least,  present  extraordinary 
exami)les  of  imai^ination  and  pi-actical  judj»nient,  runnini;; 
together  neck  and  neck  in  the  I'ace  of  life  to  the  very  i>oal. 

Mr.  Caunin.ii's  opinions  on  the  subject  of  public  speak- 
ing- alTord  a  useful  commentary  upon  his  practice.  He 
used  to  say  that  speakinj^-  in  the  House  of  Commons  must 
take  <-fjiifcrsali<jn  for  its  basis;  that  a  studious  treatment 
of  topics  was  out  of  place.  The  House  of  Commons  is 
a  \\()i-kinj;  body,  jealous  and  suspicious  of  embellishments 
in  debate,  which,  if  used  at  all,  ought  to  be  spontaneous 
and  un]»i'emeditated.  ^.lethod  is  indispensable.  Topics 
ouulit  to  be  cleai-ly  distributed  and  ari-anged;  but  this 
arrangement  should  be  felt  in  the  effect,  ancl  not  betrayed 
in  the  manner.  But  above  all  things,  first  and  last,  he 
maintained  that  reasoning  was  the  one  essential  element. 
Oratory  in  the  House  of  Lords  was  totally  different;  it 
was  addressed  to  a  different  atmosphere — a  different  class 
of  intelh.'cts — more  elevated,  more  conventional.  It  was 
necessary  to  be  more  and)itious  and  elal)oi'ate,  although 
some  of  the  chief  speakers  had  been  formed  in  the  Com- 
mons. He  thought  the  average  speaking  in  the  Peers 
better  than  that  in  the  lower  house,  one  reason  for  which 
was,  [)ei-haj)s,  that  the  [upper]  hons«'  was  less  miscella- 
neous, and  better  stocked  with  thorouglily  educated  men. 

His  own  speeches  can  never  be  cited  in  illustration  of 
the  system  he  recommended  for  the  popular  branch  of 
the  legislature.     Yet,  although  his  eloquence  was  elevated 


ROBERT   BELL.  171 

far  above  the  average  iiuagiuatiou  and  acquirements  of 
his  audience,  it  never  perijlexed  tlieir  understandings. 
The  argument  was  always  clear;  he  kept  that  to  the  level 
of  their  practical  intelligence,  and  all  the  rest  only  went 
to  raise  their  enthusiasm  or  to  provoke  their  passions. 
^A'ilberforce,  who  was  at  least  unprejudiced,  says  that  Can- 
ning "  never  drew  you  to  him  in  spite  of  yourself,"  as  Pitt 
and  Fox  used  to  do,  yet  that  he  was  a  more  finished  orator 
than  either.  As  far  as  this  goes,  it  is  quite  just.  Canning 
had  less  earnestness  than  Pitt  or  Fox;  there  was  less 
(ihandoii  in  his  speeches,  less  real  emotion;  but  he  was  a 
greater  master  of  his  art,  and  commanded  remoter  and 
more  various  resources.  His  wit  transcended  all  compari- 
son with  an^'  orator  of  his  time.  His  humor  was  irresist- 
ible. A'^llberforce  went  home  crying  with  laughter  after 
his  account  of  Lord  Nugent's  journey  to  lend  the  succor 
of  Ms  person  (Lord  Nugent  being,  as  everybody  knows, 
not  a  very  light  weight)  to  constitutional  Spain.  The 
light-horseman's  uniform — the  heavv  Falmouth  coach — 
threw  the  House  into  convulsions,  just  as  if  it  had  been  an 
assembly  of  jjantomimic  imps  lighted  up  with  laughing- 
gas.  The  passage  Avill  stand  by  itself,  without  introduc- 
tion, as  a  capital  specimen  of  the  best-humored  political 
raillerj^  There  is  not  a  particle  of  ill-nature  in  it;  and  it 
had  no  other  effect  on  Lord  Nugent  (whose  own  nature 
was  incapable  of  a  small  resentment)  than  that  of  increas- 
ing his  high  opinion  of  ^Ir.  Canning's  great  ])owers.  Lord 
Nugent  was  long  afterward  one  of  Mr.  Canning's  warmest 
supporters. 

"  It  was  about  the  middle  of  last  July  that  the  heavy 
Falmouth  coach — [loud  and  long-continued  laughter]  — 
that  the  heavy  Falmouth  coach — [laughter] — was  observed 
traveling  to  its  destination  through  the  roads  of  Cornwall 
with  more  than  its  u.sual  gravity.  [Very  loud  laughter.] 
There  were,  according  to  the  best  advices,  two  inside  pass- 
engers—  [laughter] — one  a  lady  of  no  considerable  dimen- 
sions—  [laughter] — and  a  gentleman,  who,  as  it  has  been 
since  ascertained,  was  conveying  the  succor  of  his  person 
to  Spain.  [Cheers  and  laughter.]  I  am  informed,  and, 
having  no  reason  to  doubt  my  informant,  I  firmly  believe 
it,  that  in  the  van  belonging  to  the  coach — (gentlemen 
must  know  the  nature  and  uses  of  that  auxiliary  to  the 


172  HUSH    LITERATURE. 

regular  stajje-coaclios) — was  a  box,  more  bulky  than  ordi- 
uarv,  and  of  most  portentous  contents.  It  was  observed 
that  after  their  arrival  this  box  and  the  passenger  before 
mentioned  became  inseparable.  The  box  was  known  to 
have  contained  tlie  uniform  of  a  Spanish  general  of  cavalry 
—  [much  laughter] — and  it  was  said  of  the  helmet,  whicli 
was  beyond  the  usual  size,  that  it  exceeded  all  other  hel- 
mets spoken  of  in  history,  not  excepting  the  celebrated 
helmet  in  tlie  '  Castle  of  Otranto.'  [Cheers  and  laugliter.] 
The  idea  of  going  to  the  relief  of  a  fortress  blockaded  by 
sea  and  beseiged  by  land,  with  a  uniform  of  a  light-cav- 
alry officer,  was  new,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  About  this 
time  the  force  offered  by  the  hon.  gentleman,  which  had 
never  existed  but  on  paper,  was  in  all  probability  expected 
— I  will  not  stay  to  determine  whether  it  was  to  have  con- 
sisted of  10,000  or  5,000  men.  No  doubt,  upon  the  arrival 
of  the  general  and  his  uniform,  the  Cortes  must  have 
rubbed  their  hands  with  satisfaction,  and  concluded  that, 
now  the  promised  force  was  come,  they  would  have  little 
more  to  fear — [laughter].  It  did  come,  as  much  of  it  as 
ever  would  be  seen  by  the  Cortes  or  the  King;  but  it  came 
in  that  sense  and  no  other  which  was  described  by  a  witty 
noblenmn,  George,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  whom  the  noble 
lord  opposite  (Lord  Nugent)  reckoned  among  his  lineal 
ancestors.  In  the  play  of  the  '  Rehearsal '  there  was  a 
scene  occupied  with  the  designs  of  two  usurpers,  to  whom 
one  of  their  party  entering,  says, 

'"Sirs, 
The  army  at  the  door,  but  in  disguise, 
Entreats  a  word  of  both  your  majesties.' 

[Very  loud  and  continuous  laughter.]      Such  must  have 
been  the  ettect  of  the  arrival  of  the  noble  lord. 

''  II ow  he  was  received,  or  what  effect  he  operated  on  the 
counsels  and  affairs  of  the  Cortes  by  his  arrival,  I  do  not 
know.  Tilings  were  at  that  juncture  moving  too  rapidly 
to  tlieir  final  issue.  How  far  the  noble  lord  conduced  to 
the  termination  hi/  plumpitu/  his  weir/ht  into  the  sinkiufj 
scale  of  the  Cortes,  is  too  nice  a  question  for  me  just  now 
to  settle."     [Loud  cheers  and  laughter.] 


BISHOP   BERKELEY. 

(1684—1753.) 

The  famous  metaphysician — "  the  man  who,"  to  quote  Professor 
Huxley,  "  stands  out  as  one  of  the  nobUist  and  purest  figures  of  his 
time;  from  whom  the  jealousy  of  Pope  did  not  withhold  a  single 
one  of  all  '  the  virtues  under  heaven';  nor  the  cynicism  of  Swift 
the  dignity  of  '  one  of  the  first  men  of  the  kingdom  for  learning  and 
virtue ' ;  the  man  v/hom  the  pious  Atterbury  could  compare  to 
nothing  less  than  an  angel ;  whose  personal  influence  and  eloquence 
filled  the  Scriblerus  Club  and  the  House  of  Commons  with  enthusi- 
asm for  the  evangelization  of  the  North  American  Indians  ;  and  led 
even  Sir  Robert  Walpole  to  assent  to  the  appropriation  of  public 
money  to  a  scheme  which  was  neither  business  nor  bribery  " — 
George  Berkeley,  D.D.,  Bishop  of  Cloyne,  was  born  March  12, 1684,  at 
Desert  Castle,  Kilcrin,  near  Thomastown,  in  the  county  of  Kil- 
kenny, where  he  obtained  the  rudiments  of  his  education.  At  fif- 
teen he  was  admitted  a  pensioner  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  in 
1707  he  was  chosen  a  fellow  of  the  University.  In  that  year  ap- 
peared his  first  work,  in  which  he  attempted  to  demonstrate  arith- 
metic withovit  the  help  of  either  Euclid  or  algebra. 

His  '  Essay  towards  a  New  Theory  of  Vision '  (1707)  placed  him 
among  the  philosophers,  but  it  was  '  The  Principles  of  Hvm:ian  Knowl- 
edge,' which  appeared  in  1709,  that  compelled  the  world  to  recog- 
nize that  a  bright  particular  star  had  arisen.  In  171.3  he  went  to 
London,  and  published  an  explanation  and  illustration  of  his  theory 
under  the  title  of  '  Dialogues  of  Hylas  and  Philonous,'  which  brought 
him  to  the  notice  of  Steele  and  Swift.  Huxley  says  of  them  that 
"  they  rank  among  the  most  exquisite  examples  of  English  style  as 
well  as  among  the  subtlest  of  metaphysical  writings."  Both  the 
original  work  and  its  defence  were  written  in  opposition  to  skepti- 
cism and  atheism,  yet  Hume  says  of  them  tliat  they  "  f onn  the 
best  lessons  of  skepticism  which  are  to  be  found  among  ancient 
or  modern  philosophers,  Bayle  not  excepted." 

Berkeley  soon  became  Avell  known,  not  only  to  Steele  and  Swift, 
but  to  Pope  and  others  of  the  same  company.  By  Swift  he  was  in- 
troduced to  the  Earl  of  Peterborough,  with  whom  he  went  into 
Italy  as  seci*etary  and  chaplain  when  that  nobleman  became  ambas- 
sador to  Sicily  and  the  Italian  states.  In  1714  he  returned  to  Eng- 
land in  company  with  Lord  Peterborough,  and,  seeing  no  prospect 
of  preferment,  went  with  the  son  of  the  Bishop  of  Clogher  on  a  tour 
through  Europe,  traveling  forever  four  years  and  arriving  again  in 
London,  in  the  midst  of  the  miseries  caused  by  the  South  Sea  Scheme. 
Turning  his  mind  to  a  study  of  the  events  immediately  before  him, 
he  wrote  and  published  in  the  same  year  '  An  Essay  towards  Pre- 
venting the  Ruin  of  Great  Britain.'  About  this  time  he  received  an 
unexpected  increase  of  fortune  by  the  death  of  Miss  Vanhomrigh,  to 
whom  he  had  been  introduced  by  Swift.  In  May,  1724,  he  was  ap- 
pointed to  the  deanery  of  Derrv,  worth  £1,100  ($5,500)  per  annum, 

'  173 


171  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

His  '  Proposal  for  Converting  the  Savage  Americans  to  Christi- 
anity.' issiuHl  in  1725,  led  to  his  coming  in  September,  1728,  a  month 
after  his  marriage  with  tlie  daughter  of  John  Forster,  Speaker  of  the 
Irish  House  of  Commons,  to  Rhode  Island.  After  residing  at  New- 
port for  a  couple  of  yeai's  he  saw  that  his  scheme  had  failed,  and  he 
returned  again  to  Ireland. 

In  17;>2  appeared  one  of  the  most  masterly  of  Berkeley's  works, 
*  The  Minute  Philosopher.'  In  1733,  he  was  made  Bishop  of  Cloyne, 
and  in  the  yame  year  he  deeded  his  Rhode  Island  property  to  Yale 
College. 

In  1735  appeared  his  discourse  called  '  The  Analyst,'  addressed 
as  to  an  infidel  mathematician,  and  his  defense  of  it  under  the  title 
of 'A  Defense  of  Freetliinking  in  Mathematics.'  In  the  same  year 
also  appeared  'The  Querist,'  and  in  174-4  tlie  celebrated  and  curious 
work,  '  Siris.  a  Chain  of  Philosophical  Enquiries  and  Reflections 
concerning  the  Virtues  of  Tar  Watei'.'  Finding  great  benefit  him- 
self from  the  use  of  tar  water  in  an  attack  of  nervous  colic,  he  de- 
sii-ed  to  benefit  otliers  by  the  publication  of  its  virtues,  and  he  de- 
clared tbat  the  work  cost  him  more  time  and  pains  than  any  other 
he  had  ever  been  engaged  in. 

With  his  wife  and  family  he  now  moved  to  Oxford,  drawn  thither 
by  the  facilities  it  possessed  for  study.  Before  leaving  Cloyne  he 
provided  that  out  of  the  £1,000  ($5,000),  which  was  all  his  see  pro- 
duced him,  £200  ($1,000)  per  annum  should  during  his  life  be  distri- 
buted among  the  poor  householders  of  Cloyne,  Youghal,  and  Agha- 
doe.  His  last  work  as  an  author  was  the  collection  and  publication 
of  his  briefer  writings  in  one  volume.  On  Sunday  evening,  Jan.  14, 
1753,  while  listening  to  a  sermon  his  wife  was  reading,  he  was  seized 
with  i)alsy  of  the  heart  and  expired  almost  instantly,  thus  closing  a 
beautiful  and  ingenious  life  devoted  to  the  exposition  of  his  views 
of  tlie  necessary  dependence  of  material  nature  upon  Omnipresent 
Intelligence,  in  the  course  of  which  he  discovered,  as  Huxley  says, 
"the  great  truth  that  the  honest  and  rigorous  following  up  of  the 
argument  which  leads  us  to  '  materialism,'  inevitably  carries  us 
beyond  it." 

TRUE  PLEASURES. 

From  No.  40  of  'The  Guardian.' 

FA'f'vy  <laj,  numberless  innocent  and  natural  gratifi- 
cations occur  to  me,  while  I  behold  my  fellow-creatures 
laboring  in  a  toilsome  and  absurd  pursuit  of  trifles;  one 
that  he  may  be  called  by  a  particular  a])j)elation;  another, 
that  he  may  wear  a  particular  ornaineiit,  which  1  regard 
as  a  bit  <jf  libbon  that  has  an  agreeable  ctfect  on  niy  sight, 
but  is  so  far  from  sujiplyiiig  tlu'  jilace  of  jnerit  where  it 
is  not,  tliat  it  serves  only  to  make  the  want  of  it  more  con- 
Hpicuous. 


BLSHOP   BERKELEY.  175 

Fair  weather  is  the  joy  of  my  sonl ;  about  noon  I  ])eliohl 
a  blue  sky  with  rajjture,  and  receive  a  great  eousolatiun 
from  tlie  rosy  daslies  of  liglit  which  adorn  tlie  (loads  of 
the  morning  and  evening.  When  I  am  lost  among  green 
trees,  I  do  not  envy  a  great  man  with  a  great  crowd  at 
his  levee.  And  I  often  lay  aside  thoughts  of  going  to  an 
opera,  that  I  nmy  enjoy  the  silent  i)leasure  of  walking  by 
moonlight,  or  viewing  the  stars  sparkle  in  their  azure 
ground ;  which  I  look  upon  as  part  of  my  possessions,  not 
without  a  secret  indignation  at  the  tastelessness  of  mortal 
men,  who  in  their  race  through  life  overlook  the  real  en- 
joyment of  it. 


A     GLIMPSE     OF     HIS     COUNTRY-HOUSE     NEAR 

NEWPORT. 

From  '  Alciphron,  or  the  Minute  Philosopher.' 

After  dinner  we  took  our  walk  to  Crito's,  which  lay 
thi-ough  half  a  dozen  pleasant  fields  planted  round  with 
plane-trees,  that  are  very  common  in  this  part  of  the 
country.  We  walked  under  the  delicious  shade  of  these 
ti-ees  for  about  an  hour  before  we  came  to  Crito's  house, 
which  stands  in  the  middle  of  a  small  park,  beautiful  with 
two  fine  groves  of  oak  and  walnut,  and  a  winding  stream 
of  sweet  and  clear  water.  We  met  a  servant  at  the  door 
wilh  a  small  basket  of  fruit  which  he  was  carrying  into 
a  grove,  where  he  said  his  master  was  with  the  two  stran- 
gers. We  found  them  all  three  sitting  under  a  shade. 
And,  after  the  usual  forms  at  first  meeting,  Euphranor  and 
I  sat  down  by  them.  Our  conversation  began  upon  the 
beauty  of  this  rural  scene,  the  fine  season  of  the  year,  and 
some  late  improvements  which  had  been  made  in  the  adja- 
cent country  by  new  methods  of  agriculture.  Whence  Alci- 
phron took  occasion  to  observe  that  the  most  valuable  im- 
provements came  latest.  I  should  have  small  temptation, 
said  he,  to  liv^e  where  men  have  neither  polished  manners, 
nor  improved  minds,  though  the  face  of  the  country  were 
ever  so  well  improved.  But  I  have  long  observed  that  there 
is  a  gradual  progress  in  human  affairs.    The  first  care  of 


17()  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

innnkind  is  to  supply  the  cravings  of  natnro;  in  the  next 
jilare  they  study  Ihe  eouveuienees  and  comforts  of  life. 
But  the  siibdiiinii-  i)i'ejiidiees  and  aeqiiiring  true  knowled<;e, 
that  Herculean  labor,  is  the  last,  being  what  demands  the 
most  perfect  abilities,  and  to  which  all  other  advantages 
are  pre])arative.  Kight,  said  Enphranor,  Alciphron  hath 
touched  our  true  defect.  It  was  always  my  o])inion  that, 
as  soon  as  we  had  i)rovided  subsistence  for  the  body,  our 
next  care  should  be  to  improve  the  mind.  But  the  desire 
of  wealth  steps  between  and  engrosseth  men's  thoughts. 


THE  VIEW   FROM   HONEYMAN'S   HILL. 

From  'Alciphron,  or  the  Minute  Philosopher.' 

We  amused  ourselves  next  day,  every  one  to  his  fancy, 
till  nine  of  the  clock,  when  word  was  brought  that  the  tea- 
table  was  set  in  the  library:  which  is  a  gallery  on  the 
ground  tloor,  with  an  arched  door  at  one  end,  opening  into 
a  walk  of  liuu^s;  where,  as  soon  as  we  had  drank  tea,  we 
wcic  tempted  by  fine  weather  to  take  a  walk,  which  led  us 
to  a  small  mount,  of  eas}^  ascent,  on  the  top  Avhereof  we 
found  a  seat  under  a  spreading  tree.  Here  we  had  a  pros- 
pect, on  one  hand,  of  a  narrow  bay,  or  creek,  of  the  sea,  in- 
closed on  either  side  by  a  coast  l)eautified  with  rocks  and 
woods,  and  green  banks  and  farndiouses.  At  the  end  of 
the  bay  was  a  small  town,  placed  ui)on  the  slope  of  a  hill, 
which,  from  the  advantagj'  of  its  situation,  made  a  con- 
siderable figure.  Several  fishing-boats  and  lighters,  glid- 
ing u]>  and  down  on  a  surface  as  smooth  and  bright  as 
glass,  enlivened  the  prosi)ect.  On  the  other  hand,  we 
looked  down  on  green  pastures,  flocks,  and  herds,  basking 
beneath  in  suusliine,  while  we,  in  our  superior  situation, 
enjoyed  the  freshness  of  air  and  shade.  Here  we  felt  that 
soil  of  joyful  instinct  which  a  rural  scene  and  fine  weather 
inspire;  and  projjosed  no  small  ])leasure  in  resuming  and 
continuing  our  conference,  without  int(^rru])tion,  till  din- 
ner: but  we  had  hardly  seate(l  oui-selves,  and  looked  about 
UH,  when  we  saw  a  fox  run  by  tlx*  foot  of  our  mount  into  an 
adjacent  thicket.     A  few  minutes  after,  we  heard  a  con- 


BISHOP  BERKELEY.  177 

fused  noise  of  the  opening  of  hounds,  the  winding  of  horns, 
and  the  roaring  of  country  squires.  While  our  attention 
was  suspended  by  this  event,  a  servant  eanie  running  out 
of  breath,  and  tohl  Crito  that  his  neigld^or,  Ctesippus,  a 
squire  of  note,  wda  faHen  from  his  horse  attempting  to  leap 
over  a  hedge,  and  brought  into  the  hall,  where  he  lay  for 
dead. 

Upon  which  we  all  rose  and  walked  hastily  to  the 
house,  w'here  we  found  Ctesipi)us  just  come  to  himself, 
in  the  midst  of  half  a  dozen  sunburnt  squires,  in  frocks 
and  short  wigs,  and  jockey-boots.  Being  asked  how  he  did, 
he  answered,  it  was  only  a  broken  rib.  With  some  difTi- 
cultj'  Crito  persuaded  him  to  lie  on  a  bed  till  the  chirur- 
geon  came.  These  fox-hunters,  having  been  up  earlj'^  at 
Uieir  sport,  were  eager  for  dinner,  which  was  accordingly 
hastened.  They  passed  the  afternoon  in  a  loud  rustic 
mirth,  gave  proof  of  their  religion  and  loyalty  by  the 
healths  they  drank,  talked  of  hounds  and  horses,  and  elec- 
tions, and  country  affairs,  till  the  chirurgeon,  who  had 
been  employed  about  Ctesippus,  desired  he  might  be  put 
into  Crito's  coach  and  sent  home,  having  refused  to  stay 
all  night.  Our  guests  being  gone,  we  reposed  ourselves 
after  the  fatigue  of  this  tumultuous  visit,  and  next  morn- 
ing assembled  again  at  the  seat  of  the  mount. 


EXTRACTS  FROI\r  'THE  QUERIST.' 

'  The  Querist '  was  originally  published  in  three  pai'ts  and  anony- 
mously. It  was  the  first  of  Bishop  Berkeley's  series  of  tracts  on  the 
social  and  economic  condition  of  Ireland.  There  were  originally 
over  eight  hundred  queries  propounded,  all  equally  pregnant.  The 
following  selection,  with  the  original  numbering  retained,  will  give 
a  good  idea  of  their  trend  and  suggestiveness.  They  contain  perhaps 
more  hints,  then  original,  still  unapplied  in  legislation  and  political 
economy  than  are  to  be  found  in  any  equal  space  elsewhere. 

'  The  Querist '  was  the  cause  of  organized  endeavor  on  an  exten- 
sive Bcale  of  patriotic  Irish  gentlemen  to  promote  the  agriculture, 
manufactures,  and  commerce  of  their  country. 

We  have,  as  a  matter  of  curiosity,  reproduced  the  peculiar  capitali- 
zation, the  italics,  and  the  spelling  of  the  period,  which  in  this  case 
seem  to  emphasize  the  points  '  The  Querist '  wishes  to  make. 

4.  Whether  the  four  Elements  and  Man's  labour  therein, 
be  not  the  true  Source  of  Wealth? 
12 


17S  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

r».  WliotluT  any  otlier  ^Nleans,  oqiially  coii(liK-iii2:  to  ex- 
ciii'  ami  c-inuiato  the  Industry  of  Mankind,  may  not  hv  as 
u.si'fiil  as  31om'y? 

13.  Whether  it  may  not  concern  the  Wisdom  of  the  Lei?- 
ishiture  to  interpose  in  the  making  of  Fashions;  and  not 
leave  an  Atlair  of  so  great  Influence  to  the  Management  of 
Women  and  Fops,  Taylors  and  Vintners? 

IT).  \\lK'tlier  a  general  good  Taste  in  a  People  does  not 
greatly  conduce  to  their  thriving?  And  Avhether  an  uned- 
U(  aicd  (lentiy  be  not  the  greatest  of  national  Evils? 

1().  Whether  Customs  and  Fashions  do  not  supply  the 
Place  of  licason,  in  the  Vulgar  of  all  Hanks?  Whether, 
tlierefore,  it  doth  not  very  much  import  that  they  should  be 
Aviselv  framed? 

10.  Whether  the  Bulk  of  our  Irish  Natives  are  not  kept 
from  thriving,  by  that  Cynical  Content  in  Dirt  and  Beg- 
gary, which  they  possess  to  a  Degree  beyond  any  other 
Pe()])le  in  Cliristendom? 

20.  Whether  the  creating  of  Wants  be  not  the  likeliest 
Way  to  i)roduce  Industry  in  a  People?  And  whether,  if 
our  I*easants  were  accustomed  to  eat  Beef  and  wear  Shoes, 
they  would  not  be  more  industrious? 

38.  Whether  it  were  not  wrong  to  suppose  Land  itself  to 
be  Wealth?  And  whether  the  Industry  of  the  People  is 
not  first  to  be  considered,  as  that  which  constitutes  Wealth, 
ANliich  makes  even  Land  and  Silver  to  be  Wealth,  neither 
of  whi<h  would  have  any  Value,  but  as  Means  and  Mo- 
tives to  Industrv? 

39.  Whether  in  the  Wastes  of  America  a  Man  might  not 
possess  twenty  miles  square  of  Land,  and  yet  want  his 
Dinner,  or  a  (,'oat  to  his  Back? 

80.  IIow  far  it  may  be  in  our  own  Power  to  better  our 
Affairs,  without  interfering  witii  our  Neigidujurs? 

84.  IIow  long  it  will  ])e  b(?fore  my  Countrymen  find  out, 
that  it  is  worth  while  to  spend  a  Penny,  in  order  to  get  a 
Croat? 

OS.  Whether  large  Farms  under  few  Hands,  or  small 
ones  under  many,  are  likely  to  be  made  most  of  ?  And 
whether  I'lax  and  Tillage  does  not  naturally  multiply 
Hands,  and  divide  Land  into  small  Holdings  and  well-im- 
pro\ed? 

100.  Whether  it  would  not  be  more  reasonable  to  mend 


BISHOP  BERKELEY.  179 

our  State  than  to  complain  of  it;  and  bow  far  this  may  be 
in  our  own  Power? 

104.  Wbetber  those  who  drink  foreij^n  Liquors,  and  deck 
themselves  and  their  Families  with  foreij;u  Ornaments,  are 
not  so  far  forth  to  be  reckoned  Absenters? 

111.  AMiether  the  women  may  not  sew,  spin,  weave,  and 
embroider  sufficiently'  for  the  embellishment  of  their  Per- 
sons, even  enough  to  raise  Envy  in  each  other,  without  be- 
ing beholden  to  foreign  Countries? 

114.  Whether  a  Nation  within  itself  might  not  have  real 
Wealth,  sufficient  to  give  its  Inhabitants  Power  and  Dis- 
tinction, without  the  Help  of  Gold  and  Silver? 

134.  Whether,  if  there  was  a  Wall  of  Brass,  a  Thousand 
Cubits  high,  round  this  Kingdom,  our  Natives  might  not 
nevertheless  live  cleanly  and  comfortably,  till  the  Land 
and  reap  the  Fruits  of  it? 

135.  What  should  hinder  us  from  exerting  ourselves, 
using  our  hands  and  Brains,  doing  something  or  other, 
Man,  Woman  and  Child,  like  the  other  Inhabitants  of 
God's  Earth? 

182.  Whether  our  Peers  and  Gentlemen  are  born  Legis- 
lators? Or  whether  that  Faculty  be  acquired  by  Study 
and  Reflection? 

184.  Whether  every  Enemy  to  Learning  be  not  a  Goth? 
And  whether  every  such  Ootli  among  us  be  not  an  Enemy  to 
the  Country? 

188.  Whether  if  we  had  two  colleges,  there  might  not 
spring  an  useful  Emulation  between  them?  And  whether 
it  might  not  be  contrived,  so  to  divide  the  Fellows,  Schol- 
ars, and  Revenues  between  both,  as  that  no  Member  should 
be  a  Loser  thereby? 

200.  Whether  we  may  not  with  better  Grace  sit  down 
and  complain,  when  we  have  done  all  that  lies  in  our 
Power  to  help  ourselves? 

201.  Whether  the  Gentleman  of  Estate  hath  a  right  to 
be  idle;  and  whether  he  ought  not  to  be  the  great  Promoter 
and  Director  of  Industry,  among  his  Tenants  and  Neigh- 
bours? 

283.  Whether  a  discovery  of  the  richest  Gold  Mine,  that 
ever  was,  in  the  heart  of  this  Kingdom,  would  be  a  real 
Advantage  to  us? 

286.  Whether  every  Man  who  had  Money  enough,  would 


180  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

not  bo  a  goiitleniau?    Aud  whether  a  Nation  of  Gentlemen 
won  hi  not  be  a  wretched  Nation? 

370.  AVhethei*  it  wonkl  be  a  great  Hardship,  if  every 
Parish  \Aere  obliiied  to  find  Worlv  for  their  Poor? 

383.  \Vlu'thi>r  the  Public  hath  not  a  Right  to  employ 
those  who  cannot,  or  will  not,  find  Employment  for  them- 
selves? 

384.  Whether  all  sturdy  Beggars  should  not  be  seized 
and  nmde  Slaves  to  the  Public,  for  a  certain  Term  of 
Years? 

40G.  Whether  Fools  do  not  make  Fashions,  and  wise 
Men  follow  them? 

410.  ^^'hether  Money  circulated  on  the  Landlord's  own 
Lands,  and  among  his  own  Tenants,  doth  not  return  into 
his  own  Pocket? 

447.  ^Vhelv  there  can  be  a  worse  Sign  than  that  People 
should  quit  their  Country  for  a  Livelilkood?  Though  Men 
often  leave  their  Country  for  Health,  or  Pleasure,  or 
Riches,  yet  to  leave  it  merely  for  a  Livelihood?  Whether 
this  be  not  exceeding  bad,  and  sheweth  some  peculiar  mis- 
management? 

r><)l!.  \Vhether  there  can  be  a  greater  Mistake  in  Politics, 
than  to  measure  the  Wealth  of  the  Nation  by  its  Gold  and 
Silver? 

58G.  Whether  the  divided  Force  of  Men  acting  singly, 
would  not  be  a  Rope  of  Sand? 


ON    THE    PROSPECT    OF    PLANTING    ARTS    AND 
LEARNING  IN  AMERICA. 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 

Hnrron  of  every  glorious  theme. 
In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time 

Pi-oduciug  subjects  worthy  fame: 

Id  ha7)7)v  climes,  whoro  from  the  genial  sun 
And  virgin  earth  sucli  scenes  ensue, 

The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true. 


BISHOP   BERKELEY.  181 

In  hap{)y  elimea,  the  seat  of  innocence, 

Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules; 
Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 

The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools; 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great  ins])iring  epic  rage 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay — 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  tlanie  did  animate  her  clay, 

By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way, 

The  four  first  acts  already  past ; 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day — 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 


ISAAC   BTCKERSTAFF. 

(1785?— 1800?) 

Thk  accounts  of  the  life  of  Isaac  Bickerstaflf ,  the  well-known  play- 
wriglit,  are  somewhat  vague.  He  was  born  in  Dublin  m  1735  (some 
say  1732),  and  the  date  of  his  death  is  as  uncertain  (some  say  1800 
and  otliers  1812).  In  1746  he  became  page  to  Lord  Chesterfield 
when  that  nobleman  was  appointed  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  and 
hiter  on  in  life  he  was  an  officer  of  tlie  marines.  From  this  post  he 
was  dismissed  for  some  dishonorable  action;  he  left  his  country 
and  died  abroad. 

He  was  the  author  of  some  twenty-two  comedies,  farces,  operas, 
etc.,  many  of  them  highly  successful.  His  three  old-fashioned 
English  comic  operas,  '  Love  in  a  Village,'  '  The  Maid  of  the  Mill,' 
and  '  Lionel  and  Clarissa,'  are  declared  by  a  clever  yet  sober  critic 
to  be  '•  of  the  first  class,  which  Avill  continue  to  be  popular  as  long 
as  the  language  in  which  they  are  written  lasts."  '  Love  in  a  Vil- 
lage,' which  appeared  in  1762,  and  was  played  frequently  during 
its  first  season,  still  enjoys  a  high  reputation  and  is  a  stock  piece  on 
the  English  stage,  although  it  is  said  to  be  at  best  only  a  clever 
compilation  of  scenes  and  incidents  from  a  number  of  other  plays. 

Three  of  BickerstaflE's  farces,  'The  Padlock,'  'The  Sultan,'  and 
'  The  Spoiled  Child,'  held  the  stage  for  a  long  time.  Bickerstaff 
once  attempted  oratorio  ;  his  '  Judith  '  was  set  to  music  by  Dr. 
Arne,  and  performed  first  at  the  Lock  Hospital  Chapel  in  February, 
1764,  and  afterward  at  the  church  of  Stratford-on-Avon  on  the  oc- 
casion of  Garrick's  "Jubilee  in  honor  of  the  memory  of  Shaks- 
pere,"  in  1769.  In  1705  'The  Maid  of  the  Mill'  was  produced  at 
Covent  Garden,  and  ran  the  unusual  period  of  thirty-five  nights. 
It  is  chiefly  founded  on  Richardson's  novel  'Pamela.'  '  The  Plain 
Dealer'  and  'The  Hypocrite,'  both  alterations  of  other  plays,  the 
latter  of  Colley  Cibber's  '  Nonjuror,'  are  well  known  and  still 
keep  the  stage.  One  of  Bickerstaff's  best  comedies,  '  'T  is  Well  it 's 
no  Worse,'  is  founded  on  a  Spanish  original.  Indeed,  of  all  his 
works,  only  '  Lionel  and  Clarissa '  can  be  said  to  be  thoroughly  and 
completely  original. 

This  real  name  should  not  be  confounded  with  the  pseudonym 
used  by  Swift  in  his  '  Predictions '  ridiculing  Partridge,  the  alma- 
nac maker;  nor  with  the  assumed  name  under  which  Steele  later 
edited  the  '  Tatler ' — the  same  in  both  cases. 

MR.   MAWWORM. 

From  'The  Hypocrite.' 

Old  Lady  Lambert  and  De.  Cantwell  in  conference. 

Enter  Mawwokm. 

Old  Ladij  Lambert.     Ilovr  do  you  do,  Mr,  Mawworm? 

182  ' 


ISAAC   BICKERSTAFF.  183 

MawiDorm.  Thank  your  ladyship's  axing,  I  'm  but 
deadly  poorish,  indeed;  the  world  and  I  can't  agree — I 
have  got  the  books,  doctor,  and  ^Irs.  Grunt  bid  me  give 
her  sarvice  to  you,  and  thanks  you  for  the  eighteenpencc. 

Dr.  Cantwcll.  Ilush !  friend  Mawworm  I  not  a  word 
more;  you  know  I  hate  to  have  my  little  charities  blazed 
about:  a  poor  widow,  madam,  to  whom  I  sent  my  mite. 

Old  Lady  Lanihcrt.  Give  her  this.  (Offers  a  purse  to 
Maicworm. ) 

Dr  Cantwell.  I  '11  take  care  it  shall  be  given  to  her. 
( Takes  the  purse. ) 

Old  Lady  Lamhcrt.  But  what  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Mr.  Mawworm? 

Maicworm.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me; 
I  'm  breaking  my  heart;  I  think  it 's  a  sin  to  keep  a  shop. 

Old  Lady  Lambert.  Why,  if  you  think  it 's  a  sin,  indeed ; 
pray,  what 's  your  business? 

Maicworm.  We  deals  in  grocery,  tea,  small-beer,  char- 
coal, butter,  brick-dust,  and  the  like. 

Old  Lady  Lamhcrt.  Well;  you  must  consult  with  your 
friendly  director  here. 

Mawworm.     I  wants  to  go  a-preaching. 

Old  Lady  Lamhert.    Do  you? 

Mawworm.    I  'm  almost  sure  I  have  had  a  call. 

Old  Lady  Lamhert.    Ay! 

Mawworm.  I  have  made  several  sermons  already.  I 
does  them  extrumpery,  because  I  can't  write;  and  now  the 
devils  in  our  alley  says  as  how  my  head  's  turned. 

Old  Lady  Lamhert.  Ay,  devils  indeed;  but  don't  you 
mind  them. 

Maicworm.  No,  I  don't;  I  rebukes  them,  and  preaches 
to  them,  whether  they  will  or  not.  We  lets  our  house  in 
lodgings  to  single  men,  and  sometimes  I  gets  them  to- 
gether, with  one  or  two  of  the  neighbors,  and  makes  them 
all  cry. 

Old  Lady  Lamhert.    Did  you  ever  preach  in  public? 

Mawworm.  I  got  up  on  Kennington  Common  the  last 
review  day;  but  the  boys  threw  brickbracks  at  me,  and 
pinned  crackers  to  my  tail;  and  I  have  been  afraid  to 
mount,  your  ladyship,  ever  since. 

Old  Lady  Lamhert.     Do  you  hear  this,  Doctor?  throw 


184  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

britkbats  at  bim,  and  pin  crackers  to  his  tail!    Can  these 
things  be  stood  by  ? 

Mainronn.  I  tobl  them  so;  says  I,  I  does  nothing  clan- 
decently ;  I  stands  here  contagions  to  his  majesty's  guards, 
and  I  charges  yon  upon  your  apparels  not  to  mislist  me. 

01(1  Lady  Lambert.    And  it  had  no  etfect? 

Matr>rorm.  No  more  than  if  I  spoke  to  so  many  post- 
esses;  but  if  he  advises  me  to  go  a-preaching,  and  quit  my 
shop,  I  '11  make  an  exeressance  farther  into  the  country. 

()J(1  Ladi/  hainhcrt.    An  excursion  you  would  say. 

.]fairirorin.  I  am  but  a  sheep,  but  my  bleating  shall  be 
heard  afar  off,  and  that  sheep  shall  become  a  shepherd; 
nay,  if  it  be  only,  as  it  were,  a  shei)lierd's  dog,  to  bark  the 
stray  lambs  into  the  fold. 

OJiJ  Lad  J/  Lamhcrf.    He  wants  method,  Doctor. 

Dr.  CaiifirclL  Yes,  madam,  but  there  is  matter;  and 
I  despise  not  the  ignorant. 

Matrironn.     lie 's  a  saint. 

Dr.  rant  well    Oh! 

Old  Lady  Lamhcrt.     Oh! 

Mairirorm.  If  ever  there  was  a  saint,  he's  one.  Till  I 
went  after  him  I  was  little  1)etter  than  the  devil;  my  con- 
science was  tanned  with  sin  like  a  piece  of  neat's  leather, 
and  had  no  more  feeling  than  the  sole  of  my  shoe;  always 
a-roving  after  fantastical  delights;  I  used  to  go  every 
Siinrlay  evening  to  the  Three  Hats  at  Islington;  it 's  a  pub- 
lic-house; mayhap  your  ladyship  may  know  it.  I  was  a 
great  lover  of  skittles  tof>,  l)ut  now  I  can't  bear  them. 

Old  Lady  Lamlurl.     AVhat  a  blessed  reformation! 

Mairirorm.  I  believe,  Doctor,  you  never  know'd  as  how 
I  was  instigated  one  of  the  stewards  of  the  Reforming 
Society.  I  convicted  a  man  of  five  oaths,  as  last  Thursday 
was  a  se'nniglit,  at  the  Pewter  Platter  in  the  Borough; 
and  another  of  three,  while  he  was  playing  trapball  in  St. 
fleorge's  Fields;  1  bouglit  this  waistcoat  out  of  my  share 
of  the  money. 

Old  Lady  Lamhert.  But  how  do  you  mind  your  busi- 
ness ? 

Mairuorm.  We  have  lost  almost  all  our  customers;  be- 
cause I  keeps  extorting  them  whenever  they  come  into  the 
shop. 

Old  Lady  Lambert.    And  how  do  you  live? 


ISAAC    BTCKERS^TAFF.  185 

Mawtcorm.  Better  than  ever  we  did  :  while  we  were 
worldly  minded,  my  wife  and  I  (for  I  am  married  to  as 
likely  a  woman  as  you  shall  see  in  a  thousand)  could 
hardly  make  thinii^s  do  at  all;  hut  since  this  good  man  has 
brought  us  into  tlie  road  of  the  rigliteous,  we  have  always 
plenty  of  everything;  and  my  wife  goes  as  well  dressed  as 
a  gentlewoman.    We  have  had  a  child  too. 

Old  Lady  Lambert.    Merciful ! 

Mawivorm.  And  yet,  if  you  would  hear  how  the  neigh- 
bors reviles  my  wife;  saying  as  how  she  sets  no  store  by 
me,  because  we  have  words  now  and  then :  but,  as  I  says, 
if  such  was  the  case,  would  she  ever  have  cut  me  down  that 
there  time  as  I  Avas  melancholy,  and  she  found  me  hanging 
behind  the  door?  I  don't  believe  there  's  a  wife  in  the  par- 
ish would  have  done  so  by  her  husband. 

Dr.  Canticell.  I  believe  'tis  near  dinner-time;  and  Sir 
John  will  require  my  attendance. 

Mawivorm.  Oh !  I  am  troublesome ;  nay,  I  only  come  to 
you.  Doctor,  with  a  message  from  Mrs.  Grunt.  I  wish 
your  ladyship  heartily  and  heartily  farewell :  Doctor,  a 
good  day  to  you. 

Old  Lady  Lambert.  Mr.  Maw  worm,  call  on  me  some 
time  this  afternoon;  I  want  to  have  a  little  private  dis- 
course with  you ;  and  pray,  my  service  to  your  spouse. 

Maioworm.  I  will,  madam ;  you  are  a  malefactor  to  all 
goodness;  I'll  wait  upon  your  ladyship;  I  will  indeed. 
(Going,  return.^.)  Oh!  Doctor,  that's  true;  Susy  desired 
me  to  give  her  kind  love  and  respects  to  you.         {Exit.) 


SONG. 
From  'Love  in  a  Village.' 

There  was  a  jolly  miller  once, 

Lived  on  the  River  Dee; 
He  worked  and  snng,  from  morn  to  night; 

No  lark  so  blitlie  as  he. 
And  this  the  burden  of  his  song, 

Forever  used  to  be, — 
"  I  care  for  nobody,  not  I, 

If  no  one  cares  for  me." 


186  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

TWO  SONGS. 

From  '  Thomas  and  Sally,  or  the  Sailor's  Return.* 

1. 

My  time  how  happy  once  and  S'^J- 

Oh  I  blithe  1  was  as  blithe  could  be; 
But  now  1  'm  sad,  ah,  well-a-daj ! 

For  my  true  love  is  gone  to  sea. 

The  lads  ])ursue,  T  strive  to  shun  ; 

Tlioufxh  all  their  arts  are  lost  on  me; 
For  I  can  never  love  but  one. 

And  he,  alas!  has  gone  to  sea. 

They  bid  me  to  the  wake,  the  fair,  || 

To  dances  on  the  neighb'ring  lea : 
But  how  can  I  in  i)leasure  share. 

While  my  true  love  is  out  at  sea? 

The  flowers  droop  till  light's  return. 

The  j)igoon  mourns  its  absent  she; 
So  will  I  droop,  so  will  1  mourn, 

Till  my  true  love  comes  back  from  sea. 

n. 

How  happy  is  the  sailor's  life. 

From  coast  to  coast  to  roam ; 
In  every  ])ort  he  finds  a  wife, 

In  every  land  a  home. 
He  loves  to  range,  he  's  nowhere  strange ; 

He  ne'er  will  turn  his  back 
To  friend  or  foe;  no,  masters,  no; 

My  life  for  honest  Jack. 

If  saucy  foes  dare  make  a  noise, 

And  to  the  sword  appeal ; 
We  out,  and  quickly  larn  'em,  boys. 

With  whom  they  have  to  dead. 


ISAAC    BICKERSTAFF.  187 

We  know  no  craft  but  'fore  and  aft, 

Lay  on  our  strokes  amain ; 
Then,  if  they  're  stout,  for  t'other  bout, 

We  drub  'em  o'er  again. 

Or  fair  or  foul,  let  Fortune  blow, 

Our  hearts  are  never  dull; 
The  pocket  that  to-day  ebbs  low, 

To-morrow  shall  be  full ; 
For  if  so  be,  we  want,  d'  ye  see? 

A  pluck  of  this  here  stuff. 
In  Indi — a,  and  Americ — a, 

We  're  sure  to  find  enough. 

Then  bless  the  king,  and  bless  the  state, 

And  bless  our  captains  all ; 
And  ne'er  may  chance  unfortunate 

The  British  fleet  befall. 
But  prosp'rous  gales,  where'er  she  sails, 

And  ever  may  she  ride, 
Of  sea  and  shore,  till  time  's  no  more, 

The  terror  and  the  pride. 


WHAT    ARE    OUTWARD    FORMS? 

What  are  outward  forms  and  shows. 
To  an  honest  heart  compared? 

Oft  the  rustic,  wanting  those. 
Has  the  nobler  portion  shared. 

Oft  we  see  the  homely  flower, 
Bearing,  at  the  hedge's  side, 

Virtues  of  more  sovereign  power 
Than  the  garden's  gayest  pride. 


HOPE. 


Hope !  thou  nurse  of  young  desire. 

Fairy  promiser  of  joy. 
Painted  vapor,  glow-worm  fire, 

Temp'rate  sweet,  that  ne'er  can  cloy. 


188  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Hope  I  thou  earnest  of  delight, 
Softest  soother  of  the  mind, 

Balniv  cordial,  prospect  briuht, 
{Surest  friend  the  wretched  find. 

Kind  deceiver,  flatter  still. 
Deal  out  pleasures  unpossest, 

With  thy  dreams  iny  fancy  fill, 
And  in  wishes  make  me  blest. 


*\ 


MARY    ELIZABETH    BLAKE. 

(1840 ) 

Mrs.  Blake  (nee  McGi-ath)  was  born  in  1840  in  County  Water- 
ford,  Ireland,  and  came  to  this  countrj-  when  six  years  old.  She 
was  educated  at  Mr.  Emerson's  private  school  in  Boston,  and  at- 
tended the  Academy  of  the  Sacred  Heart  at  Manhattanville.  In 
1865  she  married  Dr.  John  G.  Blake  of  Boston,  Mass.,  and  has  since 
resided  in  that  city  and  its  environs. 

She  is  a  constant  contributor  to  Tlie  Roman  Catholic  and  other 
magazines,  and,  while  her  life  has  been  full  of  literary  activity,  she 
has  found  time  to  supervise  the  rearing  and  education  of  five  sons, 
all  Harvard  men,  and  one  daughter,  who  has  inherited  in  great 
measure  her  mother's  literary  gifts. 

Among  her  books  may  be  mentioned  '  On  the  Wing,'  '  Mexico 
Picturesque  and  Political,'  'A  Summer  Holiday  in  Europe,' 
'  Verses  Along  the  Way,'  '  Merry  Months  All,'  '  Youth  in  Twelve 
Centuries,'  and  '  In  the  Harbor  of  Hope.' 

THE    DAWNING    O'    THE    YEAR. 

All  ye  who  love  the  springtime — and  who  but  loves  it  well 
When  the  little  birds  do  sing,  and  the  buds  begin  to  swell!— 
Think  not  ye  ken  its  beauty,  or  know  its  face  so  dear, 
Till  ye  look  upon  old  Ireland  in  the  dawning  o'  the  year ! 

For  where  in  all  the  earth  is  there  any  joy  like  this. 
When  the  skylark  sings  and  soars  like  a  spirit  into  bliss, 
While  the    thrushes   in    the   bush    strain    their   small    brown 

mottled  throats. 
Making  all  the  air  rejoice  with  their  clear  and  mellow  notes; 

And  the  blackbird  on  the  hedge  in  the  golden  sunset  glow 
Trills  with  saucy,  side-tipped  head  to  the  bonny  nest  below; 
And  the  dancing  wind  slips  down  through  the  leaves  of  the 

boreen. 
And  all  the  world  rejoices  in  the  wearing  o'  the  green ! 

For  't  is  green,   green,   green,   where  the   ruined   towers   are 

gray. 
And  it's  green,  green,  green,  all  the  happy  night  and  day; 
Green  of  leaf  and  green  of  sod,  green  of  ivy  on  the  wall, 
And  the  blessed  Irish  shamrock  with  the  fairest  green  of  all. 

189 


100  7/17^7/    LITERATURE. 

There  the  primrose  breath  is  sweet,  and  the  yellow  gorse  is 

set 
A  crown  of  shinins:  gold  on  the  headlands  brown  and  wet; 
Not  a  nook  of  all  the  land  but  the  daisies  make  to  glow, 
And  the  hajjpy  violets  pray  in  their  hidden  cells  below. 

And  it's  there  the  earth  is  merry,  like  a  young  thing  newly 

made 
Running  wild  amid  the  blossoms  in  the  field  and  in  the  glade, 
Habbling  ever  into  music  under  skies  with  soft  clouds  piled, 
Like  the  laughter  and  the  tears  in  the  blue  eyes  of  a  child. 

But  the  green,  green,  green,  O  't  is  that  is  blithe  and  fair! 
In  the  fells  and  on  the  hills,  gay  and  gladsome  as  the  air. 
Lying  warm  above  the  bog,  lloating  brave  on  crag  and  glen. 
Thrusting  forty  banners  high  where  another  land  has  ten. 

f^ure  brother  Nature  knows  of  her  sore  and  heavy  grief, 
And  thus  with  soft  caress  would  give  solace  and  relief; 
Would  fold  her  close  in  loveliness  to  keep  her  from  the  cold, 
And  clasp  the  mantle  o'er  her  heart  with  emeralds  and  gold. 

So  ye  who  love  the  springtime, — and  who  but  loves  it  well 
When  the  little  birds  do  sing,  and  the  buds  begin  to  swell! — • 
Think  not  ye  ken  its  beauty  or  know  its  face  so  dear 
Till  ye  meet  it  in  old  Ireland  in  the  dawning  o'  the  year! 


THE    FIRST    STEPS. 

To-night  as  the  tender  gloaming 

Was  sinking  in  evening's  gloom. 
And  only  the  blaze  of  the  fii-elight 

Brightened  the  dark'ning  room, 
I  laughed  with  the  gay  heart  gladness 

That  only  to  motliei's  is  known, 
For  the  beautiful  brown-fyed  baby 

Took  his  first  stej)s  alone! 

TTurriodly  running  to  meet  him 

rauie  trooping  tlic  household  band, 

Joyous,  loving,  and  eager 

To  reach  him  a  lielj»ing  hand, 


MARY    ELIZABETH    BLAKE.  liJi 

To  watch  him  with  silent  rapture, 

To  cheer  him  witli  haitpy  noise, — 
My  one  little  fair-faced  daughter 

And  four  brown  romping  boys. 

Leaving  the  sheltering  arms 

That  fain  would  bid  him  rest 
Close  to  the  love  and  the  longing, 

Near  to  the  mother's  breast,— 
Wild  with  daring  and  laughter, 

Looking  askance  at  me, 
He  stumbled  across  through  the  shadows 

To  rest  at  his  father's  knee. 

Baby,  my  dainty  darling, 

Stepping  so  brave  and  bright 
With  flutter  of  lace  and  ribbon 

Out  of  my  arms  to-night. 
Helped  in  thy  pretty  ambition 

With  tenderness  blessed  to  see, 
Sheltered,  upheld,  and  protected — 

How  will  the  last  steps  be? 

See,  we  are  all  beside  you, 

Urging  and  beckoning  on, 
Watching  lest  aught  betide  you 

Till  the  safe,  near  goal  is  won, 
Guiding  the  faltering  footsteps 

That  tremble  and  fear  to  fall — 
How  will  it  be,  my  darling. 

With  the  last  sad  step  of  all? 

Nay!  shall  I  dare  to  question. 

Knowing  that  One  more  fond 
Than  all  our  tenderest  loving 

Will  guide  the  weak  feet  beyond! 
And  knowing  beside,  my  dearest. 

That  whenever  the  summons,  't  will  be 
But  a  stumbling  step  through  the  shadow 

Then  rest — at  the  Father's  knee! 


COUNTESS  OF  BLESSINGTON. 
(1789—1849.) 

The  Countess  of  Blessington,  famous  for  her  beauty  and  her  grand 
receptions  as  well  as  for  her  contributions  to  liglit  literature,  was 
born  in  Kuockbrit,  County  Tipperary,  Sept.  1,  1789.  She  was  a 
daughter  of  Edmund  Power.  On  the  mother's  side  she  was  de- 
scended from  an  ancient  Irish  family.  When  scarcely  fifteen  she 
married  Captain  Farmer  of  the  4Tth  Regiment.  The  marriage 
proved  imfortunate,  and  she  lived  with  him  only  three  months. 
In  1817  he  was  killed  in  a  drunken  brawl  in  the  Fleet  Prison.  The 
jiext  year  she  became  the  wife  of  Charles  John  Gardiner,  Earl  of 
Blessington,  and  thej-  lived  in  Europe  for  several  years,  moving  in 
a  brilliant  circle  of  rank,  fashion,  and  genius.  The  result  of  her  res- 
idence on  the  Continent  is  her  two  delightful  works,  '  The  Idler  in 
Italy '  and  '  The  Idler  in  France.' 

The  Earl  died  in  1829,  and  she  returned  to  London  and  settled  at 
Gore  House.  Kensington,  devoting  herself  to  literature.  For  four- 
teen years  her  house  was  the  resort  of  the  most  distinguished  men 
of  wit  and  genius  of  every  country  and  opinion,  where  all  classes 
of  intellect  and  art  were  represented,  ancl  where  everything  Avas 
"welcome  but  exclusive  or  illiberal  prejudice.  Some  of  the  most 
genial  and  delightful  associations  of  the  time  belong  to  that  house. 
Lord  Byron  was  a  friend  and  admirer  of  Lady  Blessington  and  her 
frequent  visitor.  In  1832  her  '  Journal  of  Conversations  with  Lord 
Byron  '  was  published.  '  The  Repealers '  next  appeared,  followed 
by  'The  Victims  of  Society,'  'The  Two  Friends,'  ' Meredith,' and 
'The  Governess.'  Then  came  'The  Confessions  of  an  Elderly 
Gentleman.'  The  last  two  are  said  to  be  the  best  of  Ladj^  Bless- 
ington's  w^orks.  'Country  Quarters,'  '  Marmaduke  Herbert,' 
and  '  The  Confessions  of  an  Elderly  Lady '  followed.  The  last 
was  intended  as  a  companion  to  '  The  Confessions  of  an  Elderly 
Gentleman,'  and  in  1853  they  were  issued  in  one  volume  as  '  Con- 
fessions of  an  Elderly  Lady  and  Gentleman.'  '  The  Idler  in  Italy' 
and  'The  Idler  in  France,'  published  from  1839-41,  were  well  re- 
ceived and  universally  praised  by  the  critics.  In  the  latter  Lady 
Blessington  introduces  to  her  readers  the  leading  representatires  of 
art,  literature,  politics,  and  society,  whom  she  had  received  as 
friends  or  had  casually  met.  The  anecdotes  with  which  the  work 
abounds  are  toM  with  a  charming  frankness  and  piquancy. 

She  afterward  wrote  '  Desultory  Thoughts  and  Reflections,'  a 
collection  of  terse  and  well-digested  aphorisms  of  great  moral 
value;  '  The  Belle  of  the  Season,'  'Tour  through  the  Netherlands 
to  Paris,'  '  Strathren,'  '  Memoirs  of  a  Femme  de  Chambre,'  '  The 
Lottery  of  Life,'  and  other  tales. 

She  also  edited  Tlte  Keepsake  and  Tlie  Book  of  Beauty  for  several 
years,  and  contributed  articles  and  sketches  to  the  periodicals  of 
the  day.     Count  d'Orsay,  the  sculptor,  who  had  married  her  step- 

192 


\AOTDV^\^^3JQ  lo  aaaxnuoD  3ht 


V 


THE  COUNTESS  OF   BLESSINGTON 

From  the  painting  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence 


COUNTES^"^    OF    BLESSIXOTON.  193 

daughter,  tlie  only  child  of  the  Earl  of  Blessington,  was  separated 
from  his  wife,  and  took  up  his  abode  with  Lady  Blessington  in  Paris. 
She  spent  all  her  money  and  became  bankrupt.  After  dining  with 
the  Duchess  of  Grammont,  she  was  seized  with  apoplexy,  of  which 
she  died  next  morning,  June  4,  1849.  Her  remains  were  laid  in  a 
mausoleum  designed  by  the  Count  d'Orsay ,  near  the  village  of  Cham- 
boury. 

Mr.  N.  P.  Willis,  in  his  '  Pencil] ings  by  the  Way,'  thus  describes 
the  personal  appearance  of  Lady  Blessington  :  "  She  looks  some- 
thing on  the  sunny  side  of  thirty.  Her  person  is  full,  but  preserves 
all  the  fiutniess  of  an  admii-able  sha])e  ;  her  foot  is  not  crowded  into 
a  satin  slipper,  for  which  a  Cinderella  might  be  looked  for  in  vain, 
and  her  complexion  (an  unusually  fair  skin  with  very  dark  hair  and 
eyebroAvs)  is  of  even  girlish  delicacy  and  freshness.  .  .  .  Her  fea- 
tures are  regular,  and  her  mouth,  the  most  expressive  of  them,  has 
a  ripe  fullness  and  freedom  of  play  j^eculiar  to  the  Irish  physiognomy, 
and  expressive  of  the  most  unsuspicious  good  humor."  "  In  her  life- 
time," says  Mr.  Procter  ("  Barry  Cornwall  "),  "she  was  loved  and 
admired  for  her  many  graceful  writings,  her  gentle  manners,  her 
kind  and  generous  heart.  Men  famous  for  art  and  science  in  dis- 
tant lands  sought  her  friendship  :  and  tho  historians  and  scholars, 
the  poets  and  wits,  and  painters  of  her  own  country  found  an  un- 
failing welcome  in  her  ever-hospitable  home.  She  gave  cheerfully 
to  all  who  were  in  need,  help,  and  sympathy,  and  useful  counsel, 
and  she  died  lamented  by  many  friends." 

Her  '  Life  and  Correspondence '  was  written  and  edited  by 
Richard  Robei't  Madden,  who  tells  in  most  interesting  style  of  the 
friendship  of  Byron  and  Lady  Blessington,  and  draws  a  moui"nful 
picture  of  'The  Break-up  of  Gore  House,'  in  the  spiung  of  1849, 
when  its  treasures  were  brought  to  the  hammer  by  her  creditors. 


JOURNAL  OF  A  LADY  OF  FASHION. 

Monday. — AAvoke  with  a  headache,  the  certain  effect  of 
being  bored  all  the  evening  before  by  the  never-dying- 
strain  at  the  Countess  of  Leydeu's.  Nothing  ever  was 
half  so  tiresome  as  musical  parties:  no  one  gives  them  ex- 
cept those  who  can  exhibit  themselves,  and  fancy  they 
excel.  If  you  speak,  during  the  performance  of  one  of 
their  endless  pieces,  they  look  cross  and  affronted :  except 
that  all  the  world  of  fashion  are  there,  I  never  would  go  to 
another;  for,  positively,  it  is  ten  times  more  fatiguing 
than  staying  at  home.  To  be  compelled  to  look  charmed, 
and  to  applaud,  when  you  are  half-dead  from  suppressing 
yawns,  and  to  see  half-a-dozen  very  tolerable  men,  with 
whom  one  could  have  had  a  very  pleasant  chat,  except  for 
the  stupid  music,  is  really  too  bad.     Let  me  see,  what 

13 


194  IRISH  Literature. 

have  I  done  tliis  day?  Oh!  I  reiuember  everythini!;  went 
wronji",  as  it  always  does  when  I  have  a  headache.  Fh^unce, 
more  than  usually  stupid,  tortured  my  hair;  and  I  tlushed 
my  face  by  seoldiui;-  her.  I  wish  people  e(mld  scold  with- 
out jicttinii-  red,  for  it  disliiiures  one  for  the  whole  day; 
and  the  consciousness  of  this  always  makes  me  more 
angry,  as  I  think  it  doubly  provoking  in  Flounce  to  dis- 
compose me,  when  she  must  know  it  spoils  my  looks. 

Dressing  from  twelve  to  three.  ^ladame  Tornure  sent 
me  a  most  unbecoming  cap:  mem.  I  shall  leave  her  off 
when  I  have  jtiiid  lier  bill.  Ileigh-ho!  when  will  that  be? 
Tormented  by  duns,  jewelers,  mercers,  milliners:  I  think 
they  always  fix  on  Mondays  for  dunning:  I  suppose  it  is 
because  they  know  one  is  sure  to  be  horribly  vapored  after 
a  Sunday-evening's  party,  and  they  like  to  increase  one's 
miseries. 

Just  as  I  was  stepping  into  my  carriage,  fancying  that 
I  had  got  over  the  dcagrcmcns  of  the  day,  a  letter  arrives 
to  say  that  my  mother  is  very  ill  and  wants  to  see  me: 
drove  to  Grosvenor  Square  in  no  very  good  humor  for 
nursing,  and,  as  I  expected,  found  that  Madame  Ma  Mere 
fancies  herself  much  worse  than  she  really  is.  Advised 
her  to  have  dear  Dr.  Emulsion,  who  always  tells  people 
they  are  not  in  danger,  and  who  never  disturbs  his  pa- 
tient's mind  with  the  idea  of  death  until  the  moment  of  its 
arrival :  found  my  sister  supporting  mamma's  head  on  her 
bosom,  and  heard  that  she  had  sat  up  all  night  with  her: 
by-thc-by,  she  did  not  look  half  so  fatigued  and  ennuied 
as  I  did.  They  seemed  both  a  little  surprised  at  my  leav- 
ing them  so  soon;  but  really  there  is  no  standing  a  sick- 
room in  May.  ^ly  sister  begged  of  me  to  come  soon  again, 
and  cast  a  look  of  alarm  (meant  only  for  my  eye)  at  my 
motlK'r;  I  really  think  she  helps  to  make  her  hippish,  for 
she  is  always  fancying  her  in  danger.  Made  two  or  three 
calls:  drove  in  the  Park:  saw  Belmont,  who  looked  as  if 
he  expected  to  see  me,  and  who  asked  if  I  was  to  be  at  the 
Duchess  of  Winterton's  to-night.  I  promised  to  go — he 
seemed  delighted.  What  would  Lady  Allendale  say,  if  she 
saw  the  pleasure  which  the  assurance  of  my  going  gave 
him? 

I   long  to  let  her  see   my   triumph.     Dined   tete-a-tete 
— my  lord  very  sulky — abused  my  friend  Lady  Winstan- 


COUNTESS    OF    BLESSINGTON.  195 

ley,  purposely  to  pique  mc — lie  wished  nie  not  to  go  out; 
said  it  was  shameful,  and  mamma  so  ill;  just  as  if  my 
staying  at  home  would  make  her  any  better.  Found  a 
letter  from  madame  the  governess,  saying  that  the  chil- 
dren want  frocks  and  stockings: — they  are  always  want- 
ing:— I  do  really  believe  they  wear  out  their  things 
purposely  to  plague  me.  Dressed  for  the  Duchess  of  Wiu- 
terton's:  wore  my  new  Parisian  robe  of  blonde  lace, 
trimmed,  in  the  most  divine  way,  with  lilies  of  the  valley. 
Flounce  said  I  looked  myself,  and  I  believe  there  was  some 
truth  in  it;  for  the  little  discussion  with  my  Caro  had 
given  an  animation  and  luster  to  my  eyes,  I  gave  Flounce 
my  puce-colored  satin  pelisse  as  a  peace-offering  for  the 
morning  scold. — The  party  literally  full  almost  to  suffo- 
cation, Belmont  was  hovering  near  the  door  of  the  ante- 
room, as  if  waiting  my  approach:  he  said  I  never  looked 
so  resplendent.  Lady  Allendale  appeared  ready  to  die 
with  envy — very  few  handsome  women  in  the  room — and 
still  fewer  well  dressed.  Looked  in  at  Lady  Calderwood's 
and  Mrs.  Burnet's.  Belmont  followed  me  to  each.  Came 
home  at  half-past  three  o'clock,  tired  to  death,  and  had  my 
lovely  dress  torn  past  all  chance  of  repair,  by  coming  in 
contact  with  the  button  of  one  of  the  footmen  in  Mrs. 
B.'s  hall.  This  is  very  provoking,  for  I  dare  say  Madame 
Tornure  will  charge  abominably  high  for  it. 

Tuesday. — Awoke  in  good  spirits,  having  had  delightful 
dreams: — sent  to  know  how  mamma  felt,  and  heard  she 
had  a  bad  night: — must  call  there,  if  I  can: — wrote  ma- 
dame a  lecture,  for  letting  the  children  wear  out  their 
clothes  so  fast :  Flounce  says  they  wear  out  twice  as  many 
things  as  Lady  Woodland's  children.  Read  a  few  pages 
of  •  Amelia  Mansfield  ' :  very  affecting :  put  it  by  for  fear  of 
making  my  eyes  red.  Lady  Mortimer  came  to  see  me,  and 
told  me  a  great  deal  of  scandal  chit-chat :  she  is  very  amus- 
ing. I  did  not  get  out  until  past  five:  too  late  then  to  go 
and  see  mamma.  Drove  in  the  Park  and  saw  Lady  Litch- 
field walking:  got  out  and  joined  her:  the  jjeople  stared 
a  good  deal.  Belmont  left  his  horse  and  came  to  us:  he 
admired  my  walking-dress  very  much. — Dined  alone,  and 
so  escaped  a  lecture: — had  not  nerves  sufficient  to  see  the 
children — they  make  such  a  noise  and  spoil  one's  clothes. 
Went  to  the  opera:  wore  my  tissue  turban,  which  has  a 


19G  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

good  effect.  Belmont  eaiiie  to  my  box  and  sat  every  other 
visitor  out.  My  lord  eame  in  and  looked,  as  usual,  sulky. 
Wanted  me  to  j>o  aAvay  without  waiting  for  the  dear  de- 
liiilitfnl  S(]ueeze  of  the  round-room.  My  lord  scolded  the 
wliole  way  home,  and  said  I  should  have  been  by  the  sick- 
bed of  my  mother  instead  of  beinc;  at  the  opera.  I 
hummed  a  tune,  which  I  lind  is  the  best  mode  of  silencing 
him,  and  he  muttered  something  about  my  being  unfeeling 
and  incorrigible. 

Wcihicsdaij. — Did  not  rise  till  past  one  o'clock,  and 
from  three  to  five  was  occui)ied  in  trying  on  dresses  and 
examining  new  trimmings.  Determined  on  not  calling  to 
se(»  mamiiia  this  day,  because,  if  I  found  her  much  worse, 
I  might  be  prevented  from  going  to  Almack's,  wliich  I  have 
set  my  heart  on : — drove  out  sliO])ping,  and  bought  some 
lovely  things: — met  Belmont,  who  gave  me  a  note  which 
he  begg(Ml  me  to  read  at  my  leisure: — had  half  a  mind  to 
refuse  taking  it,  but  felt  confused,  and  he  went  away  be- 
fore I  recovered  my  self-possession : — almost  determined 
on  returning  it  without  breaking  the  seal,  and  put  it  into 
ray  reticule  with  this  intention;  but  somehow  or  other  my 
curiosity  prevailed,  and  I  opened  it. — Found  it  filled  with 
hearts,  and  darts,  and  declarations: — f(^lt  very  angry  at 
first;  for  I'cally  it  is  very  provoking  tliat  one  can't  have  a 
comfoi  (able  little  flirtation  half-a-dozen  times  with  a  man, 
but  that  he  fancies  he  may  declare  his  passion,  and  so 
bring  on  a  denouement;  for  one  must  either  cut  the  crea- 
ture, wbiclj,  if  he  is  amusing,  is  disagreeable,  or  else  he 
tliinks  himself  ])rivileged  to  repeat  his  love  on  every  oc- 
casion. How  very  silly  men  are  in  acting  thus;  for  if  they 
continued  their  assiduities  without  a  positive  declaration, 
one  might  affect  to  misunderstand  their  attentions,  how- 
ever marked;  but  those  decided  declarations  leave  notli- 
ing  to  the  imagination;  and  offended  modesty,  with  all  the 
guards  of  female.'  ])ropri('ly,  ai-e  indis])ensably  up  in  arms. 

1  remember  reading  in  some  book  tliat  "A  man  has  sel- 
dom an  offer  of  kindness  to  make  to  a  woman,  that  she 
has  not  a  presentiment  of  it  some  moments  before";  and  I 
think  it  was  in  the  same  book  that  I  read  that  a  continua- 
tion of  fpiiet  attentions,  leaving  their  meaning  to  the  im- 
agination, is  the  best  mode  of  gaiTiing  a  female  heart.  My 
own  e,\penence  has  proved  tlie  trutli  of  tliis.— I  wish  Bel- 


COUNTE.SS    OF    nLESIFUNGTON.  107 

mont  liad  not  wiitten  to  ine: — I  don't  know  Avhat  to  do:— 
how  shocked  my  mother  and  sister  woiihl  be  if  tliey  knew 
it! — I  liave  promised  to  dance  with  him  at  Almack's 
too: — how  disaj»Teeable !  I  shall  take  the  note  and  return 
it  to  him,  and  desire  that  he  will  not  address  me  again  in 
that  stjde.  I  have  read  the  note  again,  and  I  really  believe 
he  loves  me  very  much: — poor  fellow,  I  pity  him: — how 
vexed  La(l,y  ^^'iustanley  would  be  if  she  knew  it! — T  must 
not  be  very  angry  with  him  :  I  '11  look  grave  and  diguilicd, 
and  so  awe  him,  but  not  be  too  severe.  I  have  looked 
over  the  billet  again,  and  don't  find  it  so  presumptuous  as 
I  first  thought  it : — after  all,  tliere  is  nothing  to  be  angry 
about,  for  fifty  women  of  rank  have  had  the  same  sort  of 
thing  happen  to  them  without  any  mischief  following  it. 
Belmont  says  I  am  a  great  prude,  and  I  believe  I  am;  for 
I  frequently  find  myself  recurring  to  the  sage  maxims  of 
mamma  and  m^'^  sister,  and  asking  myself  what  would  they 
think  of  so-and-so.  Lady  Winstanley  laughs  at  them  and 
calls  them  a  couple  of  precise  quizzes;  but  still  I  have  re- 
marked how  much  more  lenient  they  are  to  a  fault  than  she 
is.  Heigh-ho,  I  am  afraid  they  have  been  too  lenient  to 
mine : — but  I  must  banish  melanchol}^  reflections,  and 
dress  for  Almack's.  Flounce  told  me,  on  finishing  my  toi- 
lette, that  I  was  armed  for  conquest;  and  that  I  never 
looked  so  beautiful.  Mamma  would  not  much  approve  of 
Flounce's  familiar  mode  of  expressing  her  admiration; 
but,  poor  soul,  she  only  says  what  she  thinks. — I  have  ob- 
served that  my  lord  dislikes  Flounce  very  much;  but  so  he 
does  every  one  that  I  like. 

Never  was  there  such  a  delightful  ball : — though  I  am 
fatigued  beyond  measure,  I  must  note  down  this  night's 
adventures:  I  found  the  rooms  quite  filled,  and  narrowly 
escaped  being  locked  out  by  the  inexorable  regulations  of 
the  Lady  Patronesses,  for  it  only  wanted  a  quarter  to 
twelve  when  I  entered.  Bv-the-bv,  I  have  often  wondered 
Avhy  peojjle  submit  to  the  haughty  sway  of  those  ladies; 
but  I  suppose  it  is  that  most  persons  dislike  trouble,  and 
so  prefer  yielding  to  their  imperious  dictates  to  incurring 
a  displeasure,  which  would  be  too  warmly  and  too  loudly 
expressed,  not  to  alarm  the  generality  of  quiet  people. 
There  is  a  quackery  in  fashion,  as  in  all  other  things,  and 
au3^  one_^who  has  courage  enough   (I  was  going  to  write 


198  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

iinpndenco),  rauk  enoiigii,  and  wealth  enough,  may  be  a 
It'adrr.  Unt  here  am  1  moralizing  on  the  requisites  of  a 
h'a«ler  of  fashion,  when  I  should  be  noting  down  the  de- 
licious scene  of  this  night  in  her  favorite  and  favored 
temple.  I  tried  to  look  very  grave  at  poor  Belmont;  but 
the  lights,  the  music,  and  the  gaiety  of  the  scene  around 
me,  with  the  consciousness  of  my  looking  more  than 
usually  well,  gave  such  an  exhilaration  to  my  spirits,  that 
I  could  not  contract  my  brows  into  anything  like  a  frown, 
and  witht)ut  a  frown,  or  something  approaching  it,  it  is 
impossible  to  look  grave.  Belmont  took  advantage  of  my 
good  spirits  to  claim  my  hand  and  pressed  it  very  much. 

I  determined  to  postpone  my  lecture  to  him  until  the 
next  good  oi)portuuity,  for  a  ball-room  is  the  worst  place 
in  the  world  to  act  the  moral  or  sentimental.  Apropos  of 
Belmont,  what  have  I  done  with  his  note? — My  God,  what 
a  scrape  have  I  got  into  I  I  left  my  reticule,  into  which  I 
had  i)ut  the  note,  on  my  sofa,  and  the  note  bears  the  evi- 
dent marks  of  having  been  opened  by  some  one  who  could 
not  fold  it  again :  it  must  have  been  Flounce.  I  have  often 
oliserved  her  curiosity — and  now  I  am  completely  in  her 
])ower.  What  shall  I  do?  After  serious  consideration,  I 
think  it  the  wisest  plan  to  appear  not  to  suspect  her,  and 
j)art  with  her  the  first  good  opportunity.  I  feel  all  over 
in  a  tremor,  and  can  write  no  more. 

Thursday. — Could  not  close  my  eyes  for  three  hours 
after  I  got  to  bed ;  and  when  I  did,  dreamed  of  nothing  but 
detections,  duels,  and  exposures: — awoke  terrified: — I  feel 
nervous  and  wretched : — Flounce  looks  more  than  usually 
important  and  familiar — or  is  it  conscience  that  alarms 
me?  Would  to  Heaven  I  had  never  received  that  horrid 
note — or  that  I  had  recollected  to  take  it  to  Almack's  and 
give  it  back  to  him.  I  really  felt  quite  ill.  Madame  re- 
quested an  audience,  and  has  told  me  she  can  no  longer  re- 
main in  my  family,  as  she  finds  it  impossible  to  do  my  chil- 
dren justice  unassisted  by  me.  I  tried  to  persuade  her  to 
stay  another  (|uarter,  l)ut  she  firmly,  but  civilly,  declined. 
This  is  very  provoking,  for  the  children  are  fond  of  and 
obcMlient  to  madame,  and  I  have  had  no  trouble  since  she 
has  lieen  with  them  ;  besides,  my  mother  recommended  her, 
and  will  be  annoyed  at  her  going.  I  must  write  to  ma- 
dame and  olfer  to  double  her  salary;  all  governesses,  at 


COUNTERS    OF    BLEf^f^TNGTON.  109 

least  all  that  I  have  tried,  like  money.  I  must  lie  clown,  1 
feel  so  fatij;ue(l  and  languid : — nuunnia  is  worse,  and  really 
I  am  unable  to  j;o  to  her;  for  I  am  so  nervous  that  I  could 
be  of  no  use. 

Friday. — I  am  summoned  to  my  mother,  and  my  lord 
says  she  is  in  the  utmost  danger,  ^Madame,  to  add  to  my 
discomforts,  has  declined  my  otTers:  I  feel  a  strong  presen- 
timent of  evil,  and  dread  I  know  not  what.  .  .  . 

Good  Heavens !  what  a  scene  have  I  witnessed — my  dear 
and  excellent  mother  was  insensible  when  I  got  to  her,  and 
died  without  seeing  or  blessing  me.'  Oh !  what  would  I  not 
give  to  recall  the  past,  or  to  bring  back  even  the  last  fleet- 
ing week,  that  I  might  atone,  in  some  degree,  for  my  folly 
— my  worse  than  folly — my  selfish  and  cruel  neglect  of 
the  best  of  mothers!  Never  shall  I  cease  to  abhor  myself 
for  it.  Never  till  I  saw  that  sainted  form  for  ever  insensi- 
ble did  I  feel  my  guilt.  From  day  to  day  I  have  deceived 
myself  with  the  idea  that  her  illness  was  not  dangerous, 
and  silenced  all  the  whispers  of  affection  and  duty,  to  pur- 
sue my  selfish  and  heartless  pleasures.  How  different  are 
the  resignation  and  fortitude  of  my  sister,  from  my  frantic 
grief !  she  has  nothing  to  accuse  herself  of,  and  knows  that 
her  care  and  attention  soothed  the  bed  of  death.  But  how 
differently  was  I  employed!  distraction  is  in  the  thought; 
I  can  write  no  more,  for  my  tears  efface  the  words. 

Saturday. — My  dear  and  estimable  sister  has  been  with 
me,  and  has  spoken  comfort  to  my  afflicted  soul.  She  con- 
veyed to  me  a  letter  from  my  sainted  parent,  written  a 
few  hours  before  her  death,  which  possibly  this  exertion 
accelerated.  The  veil  which  has  so  long  shrouded  my  rea- 
son is  for  ever  removed,  and  all  my  selfishness  and  mis- 
conduct are  laid  bare  to  my  view.  Oh !  my  mother — ^you 
whose  pure  counsel  and  bright  example  in  life  could  not 
preserve  your  unworthy  child — from  the  bed  of  death  3'our 
last  effort  has  been  to  save  her.  As  a  daughter,  a  wife, 
and  a  mother,  how  have  I  blighted  your  hopes  and 
wounded  your  affections. 

My  sister  says  that  my  mother  blessed  me  with  her  last 
words,  and  expressed  her  hopes  that  her  dying  advice 
Avould  snatch  me  from  the  paths  of  error.  Those  dying 
hopes,  and  that  last  blessing,  shall  be  my  preservatives. 
I  will  from  this  hour  devote  mj^self  to  the  performance  of 


200  TRISH    LITF.RATTJRE. 

those  (lutii's  that  1  have  so  shamefully,  so  cruelly  ne* 
jilected.  ^ly  hushand,  my  children — with  yon  will  I  re- 
tire from  those  scenes  of  dissipation  and  folly,  so  fatal  to 
my  repose  and  virtue;  and  in  retirement  commune  with 
my  own  heart,  correct  its  faults,  and  endeavor  to  emulate 
the  excelleniies  of  my  lamented  mother. 

Oh  I  may  my  future  conduct  atone  for  the  past — but 
never,  never  let  the  remembrance  of  my  errors  be  effaced 
from  my  mind. 


FOUND   OUT. 

From  '  Confessions  of  an  Elderly  Gentleman.' 

I  had  been  to  IJundle  and  r>i'idi>;es'  one  day  selectinr? 
jewels,  and  had  far  exceeded  the  sum  I  intended  to  expend 
there;  incited  to  this  extravagance,  I  frankly  own,  much 
more  by  the  broad  hints  of  tlie  aunt,  and  implied  rather 
than  expressed  desires  of  her  niece,  than  by  any  sponta- 
neous <i('nerosity.  Lured  by  the  beauty  of  the  trinkets,  and 
their  "  appro])riateness  to  each  other,"  as  the  bowinuj  shop- 
man observed,  I  was  rash  enouji;h  to  conclude  my  purchases 
by  a  necklace  of  rubies,  set  in  diamonds,  requirinj*'  ear- 
rinjjs,  brooches,  head  ornaments,  and  bracelets,  en  suite. 

Thus  instead  of  the  few  hundreds  I  had  intended  to  dis- 
burse I  found,  on  a  hasty  and  reluctant  retrospect  of  my 
expenditure,  that  I  must  have  dissipated  some  thousands; 
and  I  conse<iuently  returned  from  Ludgate  Hill  feeling 
that  species  of  self-dissatisfaction  and  ill-humor  which  a 
nmn  who  is  not  cjuite  a  fool  never  fails  to  experience  when 
he  has  consciously  committed  a  folly.  In  this  state  of 
iriind  T  entered  my  clul>  to  dine;  when,  not  wishing-  to  en- 
(•ountei-  any  of  my  a('(]uaintanc(?s,  I  ensconced  m^^self  in  a 
corner  of  the  larj:?e  room,  and  had  an  Indian  screen  of  vast 
dimensions  so  placed  that  I  was  isolated  from  the  general 
mass,  and  could  not  be  seen  by  any  new-comers. 

While  I  was  discnssini:;  my  solitary  repast  I  heard  voices 
familiar  to  my  ear  command  dinner  to  be  brought  to  them 
at  the  table  next  to  mine,  and  only  divided  from  me  by 
the  screen.  When  I  recognized  the  tones  of  Lord  Henry 
and  Sir  John,  for  whose  vicinity  at  that  period  I  felt  no 


COUNTESS    OF   BLESSINGTON.  201 

peculiar  desire,  I  congratulated  myself  on  the  precaution 
which  had  induced  me  to  use  this  barrier. 

"  When  did  you  come  to  town?  "  asked  Lord  Henry. 

"  I  only  arrived  an  hour  ago,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  came  late  last  night,  and  am  on  my  way  to  Avon- 
more' s." 

"  Have  you  heard  that  our  pretty  friend,  Arabella  Wil- 
ton, is  going  to  be  married?  and  to  Lyster  too?  " 

''  Est-il  poHmhlef 

"  Yes,  positively  to  Lyster,  whom  we  have  heard  her 
abuse  and  ridicule  a  thousand  times." 

I  felt  my  ears  begin  to  tingle,  and  verified  the  truth  of 
the  old  proverb,  ''  Listeners  never  hear  good  of  them- 
selves." 

"  By-the-by,  you  were  a  little  smitten  there,  and  at  one 
time  I  began  to  think  you  had  serious  intentions,  as  they 
call  it— eh!  Sir  John?" 

"  Why,  so  Arabella  took  it  into  her  wise  head  to  fancy 
too;  but  I  was  not  quite  so  young  as  all  that.  No,  no, 
Arabella  is  a  devilish  nice  girl  to  flirt  with,  but  the  last, 
the  very  last,  I  would  think  of  as  a  wife." 

"  Now,  there  I  differ  from  you ;  for  she  is  precisely  the 
sort  of  person  I  should  think  of  as  a  wife." 

"  You  don't  say  so?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  but  then  it  must  be  as  the  wife  of  another ; 
and,  when  she  is  so,  I  intend  to  be — one  of  her  most  assid- 
uous admirers." 

I  felt  my  blood  boil  with  indignation,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  discovering  my  proximity  to  the  speakers  when 
Sir  John  resumed. 

"  What  a  flat  Lyster  must  be  to  be  gulled  into  marrying 
her!  I  never  thought  they  could  have  succeeded  in  de- 
ceiving him  to  such  an  extent,  though  I  saw  they  were 
playing  us  off  against  the  poor  devil." 

"  Oh !  by  Jove,  so  did  I  too,  and  if  our  supposed  matri- 
monial projects  led  to  this  real  one  I  don't  regret  it  for 
poor  Arabella's  sake,  for  she  was  most  impatient  to  change 
her  name." 

"  Only  think  of  the  aunt's  sending  me  Lyster's  letter  of 
proposal," 

"  Capital,  capital,  the  plot  thickens ;  for  she  also  sent  it 
to  me." 


202  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

"  You  don't  say  so?  " 

"  I  swear  she  did ;  and  what  is  more,  I  can  p;ive  you  chap- 
ter and  verse,  for  Lyster  was  so  matter-of-fact  in  detail- 
ini;  his  readiness  to  make  liberal  settlements,  and  liberal 
they  certainly  were,  that  I  remember  nearly  the  words  of 
his  letter  to  Mudume  la  tante/' 

'*  And  what  reason  did  the  old  she  fox  assign  for  con- 
sulting you  on  the  subject?  " 

''  The  old  one,  to  be  sure,  of  considering  me  as  a  friend 
to  the  family." 

"  Exactly  the  same  reason  she  gave  for  consulting  me." 

''  She  stated  to  me  that  Arabella  had  a  positive  dislike 
to  Mr.  Lyster,  and  she  feared  (mark  the  cunning  of  the  old 
woman)  that  this  dislike  to  so  unexceptionable  a  parti  orig- 
inated in  her  having  a  preference  elsewhere;  and,  there- 
fore, .s7/(  had  determined  to  ask  my  opinion  whether  she 
ought  to  influence  her  niece  to  accept  Lyster." 

"  In  short,  a  roundabout  way  of  soliciting  you  to  propose 
for  Arabella  yourself.  The  exact  sense  of  her  letter  to 
me." 

*'  I  dare  be  sworn  they  were  fac-similes.  Madame  la 
tantc  added  that  her  niece  was  by  no  means  committed 
with  jNIr,  Lyster,  for  that  she  had  been  so  guarded  when  he 
asked  her  (on  observing  her  coldness)  if  his  proposal  was 
disagreeable  to  her,  as  merely  to  repeat,  with  a  shudder, 
the  word  he  had  uttered — disagreeable." 

Well  did  I  recollect  this  circumstance,  trifling  as  it  was; 
and  overpowering  were  the  sensations  of  anger  and  mor- 
tified vanity  that  oppressed  me  on  recalling  it  to  mem- 
ory! 

"  Well,"  resumed  Lord  Ilenry,  "  so  you  wTote,  as  did  I, 
to  jidvise  b}'  all  means  that  Mr.  Lyster  should  be  ac- 
cepted?" 

"  Yes,  precisely;  for  1  thought  it  the  most  prudent  ad- 
vice from  ^a  friend  of  tlu;  family' — ha!  ha!  ha! — for  the 
soul  of  me  I  can't  help  laughing!  " 

"  lla !  ha !  ha  !  nor  I  neither.  BoUi  of  us  consulted,  and 
from  tin;  same  motive." 

''  It's  cajiital,  and  worthy  of  the  old  lady,  who  has  as 
much  cunning,  and  as  little  heart,  as  any  dowager  in  the 
I)urlieus  of  Ht.  James's." 


COUNTESS    OF    BLESSINGTON.  203 

"  I  '11  hi}^  an  even  waj^or  that  we  twain  were  not  the  only 
single  men  consulted  on  the  occasion." 

"  For  my  part  I  should  not  wonder  if  the  letters  had 
been  circular:  ha!  ha!  " 

"  And  how  simple  Lyster  must  be ;  for  while  the  aunt 
was  sending  round  his  proposal  to  all  the  admirers  of  her 
niece,  lie  must  have  been  impatiently  waiting  for  her  an- 
swer." 

"Luckless  devil!  how  I  pity  him!"  (Oh,  how  I 
writhed!)  "He  has  been  atrociously  taken  in:  yet  I  am 
glad  that  poor  Arabella  has  at  last  secured  a  good  estab- 
lishment; for,  I  confess,  I  have  a  faihlessc  for  her.  Indeed, 
to  say  the  truth,  I  should  have  been  ungrateful  if  I  had 
not ;  for  I  believe — in  fact  I  have  reason  to  know — that  the 
preference  to  which  the  old  aunt  alluded  had  more  truth 
in  it  than  she  imagined." 

"  So  /  suspect,  too ;  for,  without  vanity,  I  may  own  that 
I  believe  the  poor  girl  had  a  penchant  for  your  humble  ser- 
vant." 

"  For  you?  " 

"  Yes,  for  me.  Is  there  anything  so  very  extraordinary 
in  her  liking  me  that  you  look  so  surprised  and  incredu- 
lous? " 

"  Why,  yes,  there  is  something  devilishly  extraordinary; 
for  if  I  might  credit  Arabella's  own  assertion,  her  'pen- 
chant was  quite  in  a  different  quarter." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  it  was  for  youf  " 

"And  what  if  I  did?  Is  there  anything  more  astonish- 
ing in  her  feeling  a  preference  for  me  than  for  youf  " 

"  /  merely  suppose  that  she  could  not  have  a  penchant 
for  us  both  at  the  same  time,  and  I  have  had  reason,  and 
very  satisfactory  reason  too,  to  be  satisfied  that  she  liked 
me." 

"  And  /  can  swear  that  I  have  heard  her  ridicule  you  in 
your  absence  until  I  have  been  compelled  to  take  your 
part;  though  she  often  made  me  laugh,  the  dear  creature 
did  it  so  cleverly.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  the  recollection  makes  me 
laugh  even  now." 

"  And  /  have  heard  her  attack  you  with  such  acrimony 
that  even  an  enemy  must  have  allowed  that  her  portrait 
of  you  was  caricatured ;  aud  ye^  there  was  so  much  droll- 


204  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

erj'  in  lior  manner  of  showinp:  jou  up  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  resist  lauuhiu^.    Tla  !  lia !  lia !  ■ ' 

'*  Lord  Henry,  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  I  allow  no  man 
to  Inuiih  at  my  expense.'' 

"  Permit  me  to  tell  you,  Sir  John,  that  I  ask  no  man's 
permission  to  laugh  when  1  am  so  disposed." 

"  Am  I  to  consider  that  you  mean  to  be  personal?  " 

"  You  are  perfectly  at  liberty  to  consider  what  you 
please." 

"  My  friend  shall  call  on  you  to-morrow  morning  to 
name  a  plaee  for  our  meeting.'' 

"  I  shall  be  (]uite  ready  to  receive  him." 

And  exit  Lord  Henry,  followed  in  a  few  minutes  by  Sir 
John. 

"  And  so,"  thought  I,  "  here  are  two  vain  fools  about  to 
try  to  blow  each  other's  brains  out  for  a  hearth'ss  coquette, 
and  a  third,  perliaps  the  greatest  fool  of  the  three,  was  on 
the  point  of  making  her  his  wife.  What  an  escape  have  I 
had  I  No,  no,  never  will  I  marry  her.  She  may  bring  an 
action  against  me  for  breach  of  promise — and  she  and  her 
aunt  are  quite  capable  of  such  a  proceeding — but  be  united 
to  her  1  never  will.  Kidicule  and  abuse  nie,  indeed!  Oh, 
the  hypocrite  I  xVnd  to  think  of  all  the  tender  sijeeches  and 
loving  insinuations  she  has  lavished  on  me;  the  delicate 
iiatter}^  and  iiiii)lied  deference  to  my  opinions!  Oh,  wo- 
man, woman !  all  that  has  ever  been  said,  written,  or  imag- 
ined against  you  is  not  half  severe  enough.  You  are  all 
alike,  worthless  and  designing."  .  .  . 

I  set  out  at  an  unusually  early  hour  for  Richmond,  de- 
termined to  come  to  an  explanation  with  both  aunt  and 
niece;  and,  shall  I  own  it,  anticipating  Avith  a  childish 
pleasure  their  rage  and  disappointment  at  my  breaking 
off  the  marriage.  On  arriving  at  the  villa  T  was  informed 
that  3Ii-s.  Spencer  had  not  yet  left  her  chamber,  and  that 
Miss  NN'ilton  was  in  the  garden.  To  the  garden  then  I 
hied  me,  anxious  to  overwhelm  her  with  the  sarcastic  re- 
proaches I  had  conned  over  in  my  mind. 

While  advancing  along  a  gravel  walk,  divided  by  a  hedge 
from  a  scrpicstered  lane,  1  heard  the  neighing  and  tramp- 
ing of  a  horse;  and  on  looking  over  the  hedge  discovered 
the  lean  steed  on  which  I  had  so  fre(|uently  encountered 
the  good-looking  Unknown  on  the  roafi  to  Uichmond.    The 


COUNTEl^S    OF    BLE^^INGTON.  205 

poor  animal  was  voi'aciousl3'  devouring  the  leaves  of  the 
hedge,  his  bridle  being  fastened  to  the  stem  of  an  old  tree. 
A  vague  notion  that  the  owner,  who  could  not  be  far  off, 
was  now  holding  a  parley  with  my  deceitful  mistress  in- 
stantly occurred  to  me,  and  seemed  to  account  for  liis  fre- 
quent visits  to  Kichmond.  I  moved  on  with  stealthy  steps 
towards  a  small  pavilion  at  the  far  end  of  the  garden, 
where  I  correctly  concluded  Arabella  to  be,  and  whence 
I  soon  lieard  the  sound  of  voices,  as  I  concealed  myself 
beneath  the  spreading  branches  of  a  large  laurestinus 
close  to  the  window.  I  will  not  attempt  to  defend  my 
listening,  because  I  admit  the  action  to  be  on  all  occasions 
indefensible,  but  the  impulse  to  it  was  irresistible. 

"  Is  it  not  enough,"  exclaimed  Arabella,  "  that  I  am  com- 
pelled to  marry  a  man  who  is  hateful  to  me,  while  my 
whole  soul  is  devoted  to  you,  but  that  you  thus  torment 
me  Avith  your  ill-founded  jealousy?  " 

"  How  can  I  refrain  from  being  jealous,"  was  the  re- 
joinder, "  when  I  know  that  you  will  soon  be  another's? 
Oh,  Arabella!  if  I  were  indeed  convinced  that  you  hated 
him  I  would  be  less  wretched." 

"  How  amiable  and  unselfish  I  "  thought  I.  "  He  washes 
the  woman  he  professes  to  love  to  be  that  most  miserable 
of  human  beings,  the  wife  of  a  man  who  is  hateful  to  her, 
that  he,  forsooth,  may  be  less  unhapp}^;  and  he  has  the 
unblushing  effrontery  to  avow  the  detestable  sentiment." 

"  How  can  you  doubt  my  hating  him?  "  asked  my  siren, 
in  a  wheedling  tone.  "  Can  vou  Joolc  at  Mm  and  then  re- 
gard  yourself  in  a  mirror  without  being  convinced  that 
no  one  who  has  eyes  to  see  or  a  heart  to  feel  could  ever  be- 
hold the  one  without  disgust,  or  the  other  without  ad- 
miration? " 

"  Oh,  the  cockatrice  I "  thought  I ;  "  and  this  after  all 
the  flatteries  she  poured  into  my  too  credulous  ear." 

Listeners,  beware,  for  ye  are  doomed  never  to  hear  good 
of  yourselves.  So  certain  is  the  crime  of  listening  to 
carry  its  own  punishment  that  there  is  no  positive  pro- 
hibition against  it:  we  are  commanded  not  to  commit 
other  sins,  but  this  one  draws  down  its  own  correction, 
and  woe  be  to  him  that  infringes  it! 

The  speech  of  Arabella,  which,  I  acknowledge,  enraged 
me  exceedingly,  had  a  most  soothing  effect  on  my  rival, 


20G  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

for  I  heard  sundry  kisses  bestowed,  as  I  hope,  for  pro- 
priety's sake,  on  the  hand  of  the  fair  flatterer. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  she,  "  Lyster  is  a  perfect  fright,  and  so 
<7auchc,  that  positively  he  can  neither  sit,  stand,  nor  walk 
like  anybody  else.'' 

Oh!  the  traitress!  how  often  had  she  commended  my 
air  (Icgat/c,  and  the  manly  grace,  as  she  styled  it,  of  my 
movements,  Afti'r  this  who  ought  ever  to  believe  in  the 
honied  adulation  of  a  woman? 

"  Now  I  must  disagree  with  you,  Arabella,"  replied  my 
lival  (and  1  felt  a  sudden  liking  to  him  as  I  listened)  : 
''Lyster  is  a  devilish  good-looking  fellow"  (I  thought  as 
much)  ;  "  one  whom  any  woman  whose  affections  were  not 
previously  engaged  might  fancy." 

"  Let  us  not  talk  or  think  of  him,  I  entreat  you,"  said 
Ai-abella;  "it  is  quite  punishment  enough  for  me  to  be 
obliged  to  .sec  and  hear  him  half  the  day  without  your  oc- 
cupying the  short  time  we  are  together  in  a  conversation 
rcsjjecting  a  person  so  wholly  uninteresting.  Have  I  not 
refused  Lord  Henry  and  Sir  John  to  please  you?  yet  you 
will  not  be  content,  do  what  I  will." 

''  Oh,  Ara])ella!  how  can  you  expect  me  to  be  otherwise 
than  discontented,  than  wretched,  when  I  reflect  that 
3'our  destiny  depends  not  on  me,  and  that  another  will 
be  the  master  of  your  fate?  He  may  be  harsh,  unkind, 
and  /,  who  love,  who  adore  you,  cannot  shield  you  from 
many  liours  of  recrimination  when  he  discovers,  and  dis- 
(  over  he  must,  that  in  wedding  him  you  gave  not  your 
heart   with  your  hand." 

"  Oh !  leave  all  that  to  me  to  manage,"  said  the  crafty 
creature.  "  He  is  so  vain  and  so  hete  that  it  requires  no 
artifiee  on  my  part  to  make  him  believe  that  I  married 
him  from  motives  of  pnre  ])reference.  lie  is  persuaded  of 
it:  for  wliat  will  not  vanity  like  his  believe?" 

"  liy  flattery;  yes,  by  decei)<ion  and  flattery — I  see  it 
all,  Arabella — you  have  acquired  an  eini)ire  over  Lyster 
by  that  well-known  road  to  a  man's  heart,  the  making  him 
believe  that  you  love  him.  Had  you  loved  we  you  would 
not,  yon  could  not,  have  been  guilty  of  this  deception; 
and  in  thus  deceiving  him  you  have  "(and  the  poor  young 
man's  voice  trembled  with  emotion)  "  wounded  me  to  the 
soul." 


COUNTESS    OF   BLESSINGTON.  207 

"  You  rccally  are  the  most  wrong-headed  person  in  the 
world,"  said  liis  deceitful  companion.  "  Here  am  I,  ready 
to  sacrifice  myself  to  a  rich  marriage  to  save  ijoh,  Edward, 
from  a  poor  one,  for  to  marry  a  portionless  girl  like  me 
would  be  your  ruin,  and  I  love  you  too  well,  ungrateful  as 
you  are,  to  bring  this  misery  upon  you.  When  you  come 
as  a  visitor  to  my  house,  and  see  me  in  the  possession  of 
comforts  and  luxuries  you  could  not  give  me,  you  will  re- 
joice in  the  prudence,  ay,  and  generosity  too,  that  gave 
me  courage  to  save  you  from  a  poor  and  wretched  home, 
for  wretched  all  poverty-stricken  homes  must  be." 

"And  could  you  think  my  affection  so  light,  Arabella," 
replied  her  lover,  impatiently,  "  as  to  believe  that  I  could 
go  to  his  house  and  see  him  in  possession  of  the  only  wo- 
man I  ever  loved?  No!  I  am  neither  heartless  nor  philo- 
sophical enough  to  bear  this.  Such  a  position  would  drive 
me  mad." 

"  Then  what  am  I  to  think,  what  am  I  to  make  of  you?  " 

"Not  a  villain!  a  mean,  base  villain,  who  betrays  hos- 
pitality, and  consents  that  the  woman  he  loves  shall  pur- 
sue a  conduct  at  once  the  most  vile,  deceitful,  and  dis- 
honorable!" and  he  positively  wept.  His  passionate 
grief  seemed  to  touch  even  the  marble  heart  of  his  callous 
mistress,  for  she  gently  asked  him  why  he  had  ever  ap- 
peared to  agree  to  her  wedding  another. 

"  Can  you  ask  me?  "  replied  he.  "  I  knew  you  to  be 
fond  of  luxury  and  display",  which,  alas!  my  limited  for- 
tune could  never  bestow.  I  feared,  trembled  at  the  idea 
of  beholding  you  pining  for  the  enjoyments  /  could  not  af' 
ford;  and  it  seemed  to  me  less  wretched  to  know  you  in 
the  full  possession  of  them  with  another  than  lamenting 
their  privation  with  me.  It  was  for  you,  Arabella,  com- 
scions  as  you  are  how  fondly,  how  madly  I  dote  on  you, 
to  offer  to  share  my  poverty,  and  not  for  me  to  compel  you 
to  it.  Had  you  really  loved  me,  this  course  you  would 
have  pursued." 

"  But,  I  tell  you,  I  do  love  you;  and  will  prove  my  truth 
by  following  your  wishes,  if  you  will  but  express  them," 
said  Arabella,  melted  by  his  grief  and  tenderness. 

"  If  you  really  do  love  me,  why  will  not  a  modest  com- 
petence content  you?  I  would  have  you  break  off  this 
hateful  marriage  and  accept  love  in  a  cottage  with  me.    My 


208  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

ixi'aiulinother  would  soon  foriiivc  our  stolen  union,  for  she 
likes  me  so  well  that  she  would  (luiekly  learn  to  like  her 
who  made  my  happiness.  But,  alas!  even  she,  good  and 
induliient  as  she  is,  has  often  told  me  that  you  were  as 
little  disposed  to  marrT  a  ])oor  man  as  your  aunt  could  be 
to  liive  you  to  sueli  a  husband."' 

"It  was  very  uncivil  of  your  grandmother  to  say  so, 
and  still  more  so  of  you  to  repeat  it.  But,  bless  me" 
(touching  a  repeater  I  had  given  her  a  few  days  before), 
''  how  late  it  is  I  Lyster  will  be  here  almost  immediately, 
and  if  he  should  find  vou — " 

« 

"  Your  marriage  Avith  him  would  be  broken  off.  Yes, 
I  will  leave  you,  Arabella;  and  meet  this  unhappy  man 
whose  wealth  has  won  you  from  me.  Oh !  how  I  have 
loathed  his  face  of  contentment  as  I  have  passed  him  on 
the  road  and  thought  that  Jic  was  privileged  to  approach 
you,  while  /  must  seek  you  by  stealth,  and  leave  you  to 
make  room  for  him.  I  can  bear  this  no  longer,  Arabella; 
you  see  me  now  for  the  last  time,  unless  you  accept  me  for 
vour  husband." 

And,  so  saying,  he  rushed  from  her  presence,  mounted 
liis  lean  steed,  and  was  heard  galloping  along  with  a  speed 
that  indicated  the  troul)led  state  of  his  mind. 

"  l*oor  Edward  !  "  exclaimed  Aral)ella  ;  "  heigh-ho,  I  wish 
he  were  rich,  for  I  do  like  him  better  than  I  ever  liked 
any  one  else.  And  he,  too,  is  the  only  one  of  all  my  ad- 
mirers wlio  loves  me  for  myself;  the  rcs-t  but  love  me  for 
my  flattery.  Lord  Ilenry,  Sir  John,  ay,  even  this  dolt  who 
is  about  to  wed  me,  all  have  been  fascinated,  not  by  my 
beauty  (and  for  this  I  loathed  them),  but  by  my  flattery. 
By  tJtis  I  have  charmed,  by  this  I  have  Avon  a  husband. 
Poor  Edward,  it  was  not  so  with  him;  but  love  in  a  cottage 
— I  hate  cottages — and  then  (in  a  few  years)  to  see  it  filled 
with  a  set  of  little  troublesome  brats,  and  hear  them 
s(i'<'aming  for  bread  and  butter!  No,  no,  these  hands" 
(looking  at  them)  "  wei'c  never  formed  to  cut  bread  and 
butter  like  Wertlier's  C'harlotte,  or  to  make  pinafores,  like 
good  Mrs.  Herbert,  the  wife  of  the  half-pay  captain,  in 
the  little  cf>ttage  down  the  lane." 

"  And  yet  tht^y  might  be  worse  employed,  fair  lady," 
exclaimed  1,  vaulting  into  the  room. 

Arabella  uttered  a  faint  shriek,  turned  to  a  deathlike 


COUNT ES;."^    OF   niJJSISIXGTON.  209 

paleness,   and    then   became   suffused   with    the   crimson 
blushes  of  shame, 

"  I  have  witnessed  your  stolen  interview  with  my  fa- 
vored rival ;  rival  no  louy,er,  for  here  I  resign  all  pretensions 
to  your  hand." 

She  attempted  to  utter  some  defense,  but  I  was  not  in 
a  humor  to  listen  to  what  lengths  her  duplicity  and  de- 
sire for  a  rich  husband  might  lead  her;  so,  f^ans  ceremonie, 
I  interrupted  her  by  saying  that  what  I  liad  ANitnessed 
and  heard  had  produced  no  change  in  my  previously 
formed  resolution  of  breaking  off  the  marriage.  She  sank 
into  a  chair;  and  even  I  pitied  her  confusion  and  chagrin, 
until  I  recollected  her  comments  on  my  '^  gaiicJicfHe/'  and 
the  polite  epithet  of  "a  perfect  fright,"  with  which  she 
had  only  a  few  minutes  before  honored  me.  I  can  noio 
smile  at  the  mortification  my  vanity  t]ien  suffered;  but, 
at  the  time,  it  was  no  laughing  matter  with  me. 

I  left  Arabella  to  her  meditations,  which,  I  dare  be 
sworn,  were  none  of  the  most  agreeable;  and  returned  to 
the  house  to  seek  an  interview  with  her  aunt.  That  sa- 
pient lady  met  me,  as  was  her  wont,  with  smiles  on  her  lips, 
and  soft  words  falling  from  them. 

"  Look  here,  dear  Mr.  Lyster,"  said  she,  holding  out  an 
ecrin  towards  me,  "  did  you  ever  see  anything  so  beautiful 
as  these  rubies  set  in  diamonds?  Are  they  not  the  very 
things  for  our  beloved  Arabella?  How  well  they  would 
show  in  her  dark  hair;  and  how  perfectly  they  would  suit 
the  rich,  warm  tint  of  her  cheeks  and  lips.  None  but  bril- 
liant brunettes  should  ever  wear  rubies.  Are  you  not  of 
my  opinion?  and  do  j'ou  not  think  that  this  par  are  seems 
made  for  our  sweet  Arabella?  " 

I  mastered  myself  sufficiently  to  assent  Avith  calmness 
to  her  observations,  when  she  immediately  resumed : — 
"  Oh,  I  Incio  you  would  agree  with  me,  our  tastes  are  so 
exactly  alike.  I  was  sure,  my  dear  Mr.  L3  ster,  you  would 
at  once  select  this  in  preference  to  emeralds  or  sapphires, 
which  suit  fade,  blonde  beauties  better;  but  for  our  spar- 
kling Arabella,  rubies  and  diamonds  are  the  thing.  Yet, 
how  grave  you  look  ; — bless  me !  what  is  the  matter?  Per- 
haps, after  all,  you  do  not  like  rubies  and  diamonds;  and 
in  that  case,  though  (entre  nous)  1  knoiv  that  our  darling 
Aral)ella  dotes  on  them,  I  am  sure  she  would  prefer  having 

14 


210  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

only  the  oruaiiicuts  which  i/on  like,  for  she  is  the  most 
tnu'tabk^  creature  iu  the  world,  as  you  must  have  observed. 
So,  confess  the  truth,  you  do  not  admire  this  paruref  " 

"  Why,  the  truth  is,"  said  I,  taking  a  spiteful  pleasure 
in  raising::  her  expectations,  that  her  disappointment  mif»lit 
he  the  '•reater,  "  I  yesterday  houjilit  at  Kundle  and 
Bridges'  a  pur  arc  of  rubies  and  diamonds  more  than  twice 
the  size  of  the  one  before  me,  and  set  in  the  best  taste  " 
— alluding  to  the  very  purchase  for  which  I  had  been  blam- 
ing myself  when  I  overheard  the  dialogue  between  Lord 
llenry  and  Sir  John. 

''Oh!  you  dear,  kind,  generous  creature,  how  good  of 
you!  How  delighted  our  sweet  Arabella  will  be!  Have 
you  brought  it  with  you?  I  am  positively  dying  with  im- 
patience to  see  it." 

"  Then  I  fear,  madam,"  replied  I,  with  sternness,  "  that 
your  curiosity  will  never  be  gratified." 

"  Why,  w  hat  a  strange  humor  you  are  in,  my  dear  Mr. 
Lyster — nei)hew,  I  was  going  to  call  you;  but  I  sha'n't 
give  you  that  affectionate  appellation  Avhile  you  are  so 
odd  and  so  cross.  And  why  am  I  not  to  see  them,  pray? 
Surely  you  do  not  intend  to  prevent  my  associating  with 
my  sweet  child  when  she  becomes  your  wife?  No,  you 
never  could  be  so  cruel."  And  the  old  hypocrite  laid  her 
hand  on  my  arm  in  her  most  fawning  manner. 

"  I  have  no  intention,  madam,  of  separating  two  per- 
sons who  seem  so  peculiarly  formed  for  each  other." 

"Good  creature!  How  kind  of  you,  dear  Mr.  Lyster; 
how  happy  you  have  made  me;  I  felt  so  wretched  at  the 
thoughts  of  our  sweet  Arabella's  being  taken  from 
me,  for  I  have  ever  looked  on  her  as  if  she  were  my  own 
child.  How  considerate  of  you  not  to  separate  us.  I  am 
sure  she  will  be  delighted;  and  /  shall  be  the  happiest  per- 
son in  the  world  to  give  up  the  cares  and  troiil)le  of  an  es- 
tablislniicnt  of  my  own,  which,  at  my  advanced  age,  and 
deprived  of  Arabella,  would  be  insupportable.  Believe 
me,  most  cheerfully,  nay,  gladh',  shall  I  avail  myself  of 
your  kind  offer,  and  fix  myself  with  you  and  my  affection- 
ate child." 

The  f)ld  lady  was  so  delighted  at  the  thought  of  this 
plan,  that  she  made  more  than  one  attempt  to  embrace  her 
dear  ne]>he\v,  as  she  now  called  me,  and  it  was  some  miu- 


COUNTESS    OF    BLESSINGTON.  211 

utes  before  I  could  silence  her  joyful  loquacity;  during 
which  time,  I  will  candidly  own,  I  had  a  malicious  pleas- 
ure in  anticipatiii.n'  the  bitter  disa])i)ointinent  that  awaited 
her.  ^^'lleu,  at  len<;tli,  she  had  exhausted  her  ejaculations 
of  delight,  I  thus  sternly  addressed  her: — 

"  AVhen  I  declared  my  intention,  madam,  of  not  sep- 
arating you  and  your  niece,  I  did  not  mean  to  ask  you  to 
become  a  member  of  my  family.  I  simply  meant  to  state 
that  I  did  not  intend  depriving  you  of  the  advantage  of 
her  society,  as  I  have  determined  on  not  marrying  her." 

"  Good  heavens!  what  do  I  hear?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Spen- 
cer. "  What  do  you,  what  can  you  mean,  Mr.  Lyster? 
It  is  cruel  thus  to  try  my  feelings;  you  have  quite  shocked 
me;  I — I — am  far  from  well." 

And  her  changeful  hue  denoted  the  truth  of  the  asser- 
tion. 

"  Let  it  suffice  to  say,  madam,  that  I  last  evening  heard 
Lord  Henry  and  Sir  John  declare  the  extraordinary  con- 
fidence you  had  reposed  in  them;  that  you  had  not  only 
sent  to  each  my  letter  of  proposal  to  your  niece,  but  be- 
trayed to  them  her  more  than  indifference  towards  me, 
and  the  very  words  in  which  she  expressed  herself  when  I 
made  her  the  offer  of  my  hand." 

"  How  base,  how  unworthy  of  Lord  Henry  and  Sir 
John !  "  said  Mrs.  Spencer,  forgetting  all  her  usual  craft 
in  the  surprise  and  irritation  caused  by  this  information. 
"  Never  was  there  such  shameful  conduct." 

"  You  are  right,  madam,"  replied  I,  "  the  conduct  prac- 
ticed on  this  occasion  has  been  indeed  shameful;  luckily 
for  me  the  discovery  of  it  has  not  been  too  late." 

"  If  you  are  so  dishonorable  as  not  to  fulfill  your  en- 
gagement," said  the  old  lady,  her  cheeks  glowing  with 
anger  and  her  eyes  flashing  fury,  "  be  assured  that  I  will 
instruct  my  lawyer  to  commence  proceedings  against  you 
for  a  breach  of  promise  of  marriage;  for  I  have  no  notion 
of  letting  my  injured  niece  sit  quietly  down  a  victim  to 
such  monstrous  conduct." 

"  I  leave  you,  madam,"  replied  I,  "  to  pursue  whatever 
plan  you  deem  most  fitting  to  redress  her  grievances,  and 
blazon  forth  to  the  world  your  own  delicate  part  in  the 
Corned}^  of  Errors;  the  denouement  of  which  is  not  pre- 
cisely what  you  could  have  wished.     However,  as  comedies 


212  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

should  always  end  in  a  marrinjie,  lot  me  advise  you  to 
seek  a  substitute  for  your  liuud)le  servant." 

Then,  bowiuj^  low  to  luy  intended  aunt,  I  loft  her  pres- 
ence for  ever:  and  returned  to  London  with  a  sense  of 
redeemed  freedom  that  gave  a  lightness  to  my  spirits,  to 
whieh  they  had  been  a  stranger  ever  since  the  ill-omened 
hour  of  uiy  i)roposal  to  Arabella. 

Of  all  the  presents  that  had  found  their  way  to  the  villa, 
and  tlu^y  were  not,  "  like  angel  visits,  few  and  far  between," 
but  many  and  costly,  not  one,  except  my  portrait,  was  ever 
returned.  I  retained  that  of  Arabella;  not  out  of  love, 
heaven  knows,  but  because  I  wished  to  preserve  a  memento 
of  the  follv  of  being  caught  bv  more  beautv;  and  as  it  had 
eost  mo  a  considerable  sum,  I  thought  myself  privileged  to 
keep  it  as  a  specimen  of  art. 

Lord  Henry  and  Sir  John  fought  a  duel  the  day  after 
their  altercation  at  the  club,  in  which  the  first  was  mor- 
tally wounded,  and  the  latter  was  consetiueutly  compelled 
to  tly  to  the  Continent. 

In  a  week  from  the  period  of  my  last  interview  with 
Arabella  and  Inn-  aunt  the  newspapers  were  filled  with  ac- 
counts of  the  elopement  of  the  beautiful  and  fashionable 
Miss  Wilton  with  Lieutenant  Kodney  of  the  Guards.  It 
was  stated  that  the  young  lady  had  been  on  the  eve  of 
marriage  with  the  i-ich  Mr.  L.  of  L.  Park,  but  that  Cupid 
had  triiiiiiidied  o\'er  Plutus,  and  the  disinterested  beauty 
had  prcfeired  love  in  a  cottage  with  Lieutenant  Rodney,  to 
sharing  the  immense  wealth  of  her  rejected  suitor,  who 
was  said  to  \\  ear  the  willow  with  all  due  sorrow. 


TUE   PRINCESS  TALLEYRAND  AS  A   CRITIC. 
From  '  The  Idler  in  France.' 

Met  the  Princess  de  Talleyrand  last  night  at  ^Madame 

C 's.     I  felt  curious  to  see  this  lady,  of  whom  I  had 

heard  such  various  reports;  and,  as  usual,  found  her  very 
dilTcrent  to  the  descri]>tioiis   1   ha<l  received. 

Slie  comes  en  prhiccsse,  attended  by  two  (James  de  com- 
puynie,    and    a    gentleman    who    acted    as    ckamheUan. 


COU^TE^H    OF   BLE^^INGTO^.  213 

Though  her  ctnhonpomt  has  not  only  destroyed  her  shape 
but  has  also  deteriorated  her  face,  the  small  features  of 
which  seem  imbued  in  a  mask  much  too  fleshy  for  their  i)ro- 
portions,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  in  her  youth  she  must  have 
been  handsome.  Her  complexion  is  fair;  her  hair,  judg- 
ing from  the  eyebrows  and  ej^elashes,  must  have  been  very 
light;  her  eyes  are  blue;  her  nose  retrousse;  her  mouth 
small,  with  full  lips;  and  the  expression  of  her  coun- 
tenance is  agreeable,  though  not  intellectual. 

In  her  demeanor  there  is  an  evident  assumption  of 
dignity,  which,  falling  short  of  the  aim,  gives  an  ungrace- 
ful stiffness  to  her  appearance.  Her  dress  was  rich  but 
suited  to  her  age,  which  I  should  pronounce  to  be  about 
sixty.  Her  manner  has  the  formality  peculiar  to  those  con- 
scious of  occupying  a  higher  station  than  their  birth  or 
education  entitles  them  to  hold;  and  this  consciousness 
gives  an  air  of  constraint  and  reserve  that  curiously  con- 
trasts with  the  natural  good-humor  and  naivete  that  are 
frequently  perceptible   in  her. 

If  ignorant — as  is  asserted — there  is  no  symptom  of  it 
in  her  language.  To  be  sure,  she  says  little;  but  that 
little  is  expressed  with  propriety:  and  if  reserved,  she  is 
scrupulously  polite.  Her  dames  de  compagnie  and  chain- 
heUan  treat  her  with  profound  respect,  and  she  acknowl- 
edges their  attentions  with  civility.  To  sum  up  all,  the  im- 
pression made  upon  me  by  the  Princess  Talleyrand  was, 
that  she  differed  in  no  way  from  any  other  princess  I  had 
ever  met,  except  by  a  greater  degree  of  reserve  and  for- 
mality than  were  in  general  evinced  by  them. 

I  could  not  help  smiling  inwardly  when  looking  at  her, 
as  I  remembered  Baron  Deuon's  amusing  story  of  the 
mistake  she  once  made.  When  the  baron's  work  on  Egypt 
was  the  topic  of  general  conversation,  and  the  hotel  of  the 
Prince  Talleyrand  was  the  rendezvous  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished persons  of  both  sexes  at  Paris,  Denon  being 
engaged  to  dine  there  one  day,  the  prince  wished  the  prin- 
cess to  read  a  few  pages  of  the  book,  in  order  that  she  might 
be  enabled  to  say  something  complimentary  on  it  to  the 
author.  He  consequently  ordered  his  librarian  to  send 
the  work  to  her  apartment  on  the  morning  of  the  day  of 
the  dinner;  but,  unfortunately  at  the  same  time  also  com- 
manded that  a  copy  of  '  Robinson  Crusoe '  should  be  sent 


1214  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

to  a  Tonnir  latlv,  a  protegee  of  hers,  w-ho  resided  in  the  hotel. 
The  Baron  Denon's  work,  throni»h  mistake,  was  given  to 
mademoiselU',  and  '  liobinson  Crusoe  '  was  delivered  to  the 
princess,  who  rapidly  looked  thronjih  its  pages. 

The  seat  of  honor  at  table  being  assigned  to  the  baron, 
the  princess,  mindful  of  her  husband's  wishes,  had  no 
sooner  eaten  her  soup  than,  smiling  graciously,  she  thanked 
Denon  for  the  pleasure  which  the  perusal  of  his  work  had 
afforded  her.  The  author  was  pleased  and  told  her  how 
much  he  felt  honored ;  but  judge  of  his  astonishment,  and 
the  dismay  of  the  Prince  Talleyrand,  when  the  princess 
exclaimed,'  "  Yes,  Monsieur  le  Baron,  your  work  has  de- 
lighted me;  but  I  am  longing  to  know  what  has  become  of 
your  poor  num  Friday,  about  whom  I  feel  such  an  in- 
terest!" 

Denon  used  to  recount  this  anecdote  with  great  spirit, 
confessing  at  the  same  time  that  his  amour  propre  as  an 
author  had  been  for  a  moment  flattered  by  the  commenda- 
tion, even  of  a  person  universally  known  to  be  incompetent 
to  pronounce  on  the  merit  of  his  book.  The  Emperor 
2sapol('on  heard  this  story,  and  made  Baron  Denon  repeat 
it  to  him,  laughing  immoderately  all  the  time,  and  fre- 
quently after  he  would,  when  he  saw  Denon,  inquire  "  how 
was  poor  Friday?  " 


MRS.  BLUNDELL  (:\r.  E.  FRANCIS). 

Mrs.  Blundell,  who  has  rapidly  achieved  fame  as  a  novelist,  was 
born  at  Killiney  Park,  Dublin.  She  is  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Sweet- 
man  of  Lamberton  Park,  Queen's  County,  and  was  educated  thei-o 
and  in  B'^lgium.  In  1879  she  married  the  late  Francis  Blundell  of 
Crosby,  near  Liverpool.  This  home  of  her  married  life  is  the  back- 
ground of  many  of  her  stories. 

Among  her  books  are  :  '  Whither  ? '  (1892)  ;  '  In  a  North  Countrv 
Village'  (1893)  ;  'The  Story  of  Dan'  (1894)  ;  'Town  Mice  in  tlio 
Country '  (1894)  ;  '  A  Daughter  of  the  Soil  '  (1895)  ;  '  Frieze  and 
Fustian'  (1896)  ;  '  Among  Untrodden  Ways '  (189G)  ;  '  Maimie  oHhe 
Corner '  (1897)  ;  'Miss  Erin'  (1898);  'The  Duenna  of  a  Genius' 
(1898)  ;  '  Pastorals  of  Dorset '  ;  '  Fiander's  Widow  '  ;  '  Here,  There, 
and  Over  the  Sea  ';  and  '  The  Manor  Farm.' 

IN    ST.    PATRICK'S   WARD. 

It  was  intensely,  suffocatingly  hot,  though  the  windows 
on  either  side  of  the  long  room  were  wide  open;  the 
patients  la}^  languidly  watching  the  flies  on  the  ceiling,  the 
sunshine  streaming  over  the  ocher-tinted  wall,  the  flicker- 
ing light  of  the  little  lamp  which  burned  night  and  day 
beneath  the  large  colored  statue  of  St.  Patrick  in  the  center 
of  the  ward.  It  was  too  hot  even  to  talk.  Granny  M'Gee 
— who,  though  not  exactly  ill,  was  old  and  delicate  enough 
to  be  permitted  to  remain  permanently  in  the  Union  In- 
firmary instead  of  being  relegated  to  the  workhouse  proper 
— dozed  in  her  wicker  chair  with  her  empty  pipe  between 
her  wrinkled  fingers.  Once,  as  she  loved  to  relate,  she 
had  burnt  her  lovely  fringe  with  that  same  pipe — "  bad 
luck  to  it!"  but  she  invariablj^  hastened  to  add  that  her 
heart  'ud  be  broke  out  an'  out  if  it  wasn't  for  the  taste  o' 
baccy.  Her  neighbor  opposite  was  equally  fond  of  snuff, 
and  was  usually  to  be  heard  lamenting  how  she  had  rared 
a  fine  fam'ly  o'  boys  an'  girls  and  how  notwithstanding  she 
had  ne'er  a  wan  to  buy  her  a  ha'porth  in  her  ould  age. 

Now,  however,  for  a  wonder  she  was  silent,  and  even  the 
woman  nearest  the  door  found  it  too  hot  to  brandish  her 
distorted  wrists  according  to  her  custom  when  she  wished 
to  excite  compassion  or  to  plead  for  alms.  There  would 
be  no  visitors  this  morning;  not  the  most  compassionate 
of  "  the  ladies,"  who  came  to  read  and  otherwise  cheer  the 

215 


21G  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

poor  sufferers  of  St.  Patrick's  ward,  would  venture  there 
on  such  a  day. 

The  buzziiiii  of  the  flies  aforesaid,  the  occasional  moans 
of  the  more  feeble  patients,  the  hurried  breathini;  of  a  poor 
j;irl  in  the  last  stage  of  consumption  were  the  only  sounds 
to  be  heard,  except  for  the  quiet  footsteps  and  gentle  voice 
of  Sister  Louise.  There  was  something  refreshing  in  tlie 
very  sight  oi'  this  tall  slight  figure,  in  its  blue-gray  habit 
and  dazzling  wliite  "  cornette,"  from  beneath  which  the 
dark  eves  looked  forth  with  sweet  and  almost  childish 
•lirectness.  Sister  Louise  was  not  indeed  much  more  than 
a  child  in  years,  and  there  were  still  certain  inflections  in 
her  voice,  an  (elasticity  in  her  movements,  a  something 
about  hci-  very  hands,  with  their  little  pink  palms  and 
«]imi)led  knuckles,  that  betrayed  the  fact.  But  those  baby- 
ish hands  had  done  good  service  since  Sister  Louise  had 
left  the  novitiate  in  the  Kue  du  Bac  two  years  before;  that 
young  voice  had  a  marvelous  power  of  its  own,  and  could 
exhort  and  reprove  as  well  as  soothe  and  console;  and 
when  the  blue-robed  figure  was  seen  flitting  up  and  down 
the  ward  smiles  appeared  on  wan  and  sorrowful  faces,  and 
querulous  murmurs  were  hushed.  Even  to-day  the  pa- 
tients nodded  to  her  languidly  as  she  passed,  observing 
with  transitory  cheerfulness  that  they  were  kilt  with  the 
hate  or  tliat  it  was  terrible  weather  entirely.  One  crone 
roused  herself  sufiiciently  to  i-emark  that  it  was  a  fine  thing 
for  the  counthry,  glory  be  to  God  I  which  patriotic  senti- 
ment won  a  smile  from  Sister  Louise,  but  failed  to  awaken 
much  enthusiasm  in  any  one  else. 

The  Sister  of  Charity  paused  before  a  bed  in  which  a 
little,  very  thin  old  woman  was  coiled  up  with  eyes  half 
closed.  Mrs.  Brady  was  the  latest  arrival  at  St.  Patrick's 
ward,  having  indeed  only  "  come  in  "  on  the  preceding  day; 
and  Sister  L«juise  thought  she  would  very  likely  need  a 
little  cheering. 

"  How  are  you  to-day,  Mrs.  Brady?  "  she  asked,  bending 
over  her. 

"  Why  then  indeed,  ma'am — is  it  ma'am  or  mother  I 
ought  to  call  ye?  " 

"  '  Sister ' — we  are  all  Sisters  here,  though  some  of  the 
people  call  Sister  Supierior  '  IJeverend  ^lother,' " 

"Ah,  that  indeed?"  said  Mrs.  Brady,  raising  herself  a 


MRS.    BLUNDELL.  217 

little  in  the  bed,  and  speakinjij  with  great  dignity.  "  Ye 
see  yous  are  not  the  sort  o'  nuns  I  'm  used  to,  so  you  'II  ex- 
cuse nie  if  1  don't  altogether  spake  tlie  way  I  ought.  Our 
nuns  down  in  the  (Queen's  County  has  black  veils,  ye  know, 
ma'am — Sisther,  I  mane — an'  not  that  kind  of  a  white  bon- 
net that  you  have  on  your  head." 

"  Well,  do  you  know  our  patients  here  get  quite  fond  of 
our  white  wings,  as  they  cnll  them?"  returned  Sister 
Louise  smiling.  "  But  you  haven't  told  me  how  you  are, 
yet.    Better  I  hope,  and  pretty  comfortable." 

A  tear  suddenly  rolled  down  IVIrs.  Brady's  cheek,  but  she 
preserved  her  lofty  manner. 

"  Ah,  yes,  thank  ye,  Sisther,  as  comfortable  as  I  could  ex- 
pect in  a  place  like  this.  Of  course  T  niver  thought  it's 
here  I  'd  be,  l)ut  it 's  on'y  for  a  short  time,  thanks  be  to 
Ood !  My  little  boy '11  be  comiu'  home  from  America  soon 
to  take  me  out  of  it." 

"  Why,  that 's  good  news !  "  cried  the  Sister  cheerfully. 
"  We  must  make  you  quite  well  and  strong — that  is,  as 
strong  as  we  can  " — with  a  compassionate  glance,  "  by  the 
time  he  comes.     When  do  you  expect  him?  " 

"  Any  day  now,  ma'am — Sisther,  I  mane — ay,  indeed,  T 
may  say  any  day  an'  every  day,  an'  I  'm  afeard  his  heart  '11 
be  broke  findin'  me  in  this  place.     But  no  matther!  " 

Here  she  shook  her  head  darkly,  as  though  she  could  say 
much  on  that  subject,  but  refrained  out  of  consideration 
for  Sister  Louise. 

"  Well,  we  must  do  all  we  can  for  you  meanwhile,"  said 
the  latter  gently.  "  Have  you  made  acquaintance  with 
your  neighbors  yet?  Poor  Mrs.  M'Evoy  here  is  worse  off 
than  you,  for  she  can't  lift  her  head  just  now.  Tell  Mrs. 
Brady  how  it  was  you  hurt  your  back,  Mrs.  M'Evoy." 

"  Bedad,  Sisther,  ye  know  yerself  it  was  into  the  canal  I 
fell  wid  a  can  o'  milk,"  said  the  old  woman  addressed, 
squinting  fearfully  in  her  efforts  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
new  patient.  "  The  Bishop  says  the  last  time  he  come 
round,  '  I  s'pose,'  he  says,  '  ye  were  goin'  to  put  wather 
in  the  milk.'  '  No,'  says  I,  '  there  was  wather  enough  in  it 
before.' " 

Here  Mrs.  M'Evoy  leered  gleefully  up  at  the  Sister,  and 
one  or  two  feeble  chuckles  were  heard  from  the  neigh- 
boring beds;  but  Mrs.  Brady  assumed  an  attitude  which 


218  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

can  only  bo  described  as  one  implying  a  mental  drawincj 
away  of  skii-ts,  and  preserved  an  impenetral)le  gravity. 
Evidently  she  luul  never  associated  with  "  the  like  "  of  Mrs. 
M'Evoy  in  the  circles  in  which  she  had  hitherto  moved. 

'*  And  thiM-e  's  Kate  Mahony  on  the  other  side,"  pursned 
Sister  Louise,  without  appearing  to  notice  Mrs.  Brady's 
demeanor.  "  She  has  been  lying  here  for  seventeen  years, 
haven't  vou  Kate?  '' 

"  Ay,  Sisther,"  said  Kate,  a  thin-faced,  sweet-looking 
woman  of  about  forty,  looking  up  brightly. 

"Poor  Kate!"  said  the  Sister,  in  a  caressing  tone. 
"  You  must  get  Kate  to  tell  you  her  story  some  time,  Mrs. 
Brady.     She  had  seen  better  days,  like  you." 

"Oil,  that  indeed?"  said  Mrs.  Brady,  distantly  but 
])olitely,  and  with  a  dawning  interest.  "  I  s'pose  you  are 
from  the  country  then,  like  meself." 

"  Ah,  no,  ma'am,"  returned  Kate.  "  I  may  say  I  was 
never  three  miles  away  from  town.  I  went  into  service 
when  I  was  on'y  a  slip  of  a  little  girl,  an'  lived  with  the  wan 
lady  till  the  rheumatic  fever  took  me,  an'  made  me  what  I 
am  now.     You  're  not  from  this  town,  I  s'pose,  ma'am." 

"  Indee<l,  I  'd  be  long  sorry  to  come  from  such  a  dirty 
place — beggin'  your  pardon  for  sayin'  it.  No,  indeed,  I 
am  from  the  Queen's  County,  near  Mar'boro'.  We  had 
the  loveliest  little  farm  there  ye  could  see,  me  an'  me  poor 
husband,  the  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  his  soul !  Ay,  indeed, 
it 's  little  we  ever  thought — but  no  matther !  Glory  be  to 
goodness!  my  little  boy '11  be  comin'  back  from  America 
soon  to  take  me  out  o'  this." 

"  Sure  it  's  well  for  ye,"  said  Kate,  "  that  has  a  fine  son 
o'  your  own  to  work  for  ye.  Look  at  me  without  a  crature 
in  the  wide  world  Ijelougiu'  to  me!  An'  how  long  is  your 
son  in  America,  ma'am?" 

"  Goin  '  on  two  year,  now,"  said  ]\rrs.  Brady,  with  a  sigh. 

"  ne  '11  be  apt  to  be  writin'  to  ye  often,  I  s'pose,  ma'am." 

"  Why  then,  indeed,  not  so  often.  The  poor  fellow  he 
was  niver  much  of  a  hand  at  the  pen.  He's  movin'  about 
ye  see,  gettin'  work  here  an'  there." 

Sister  Louise  had  moved  on,  seeing  that  the  pair  were 
likely  to  make  friends;  and  before  ten  minutes  had  elapsed 
each  was  in  possession  of  the  other's  history.  Kate's, 
indeed,  was  simple  (enough  ;  her  seventeen  years  in  the  in- 


MRS.    BLUNDELL.  219 

firmary  beinj?  procodtMl  by  a  quiet  life  in  a  very  uninterest- 
ing:^ ueijjjliboi'liood  ;  but  she  "  came  of  decent  people,"  being 
connected  with  "  the  rale  ould  O'Korkes,"  and  her  father 
had  been  "  in  business  " — two  circumstances  which  im- 
pressed Mrs.  Brady  very  much,  and  caused  her  to  unbend 
towards  "  Miss  Mahony,"  as  she  now  respectfully  called 
her  new  acquaintance.  The  latter  was  loud  in  expressions 
of  admiration  and  sympathy  as  Mrs.  Brady  described  the 
splendors  of  the  past ;  the  servant-man  and  her  servant- 
maid  \a1io,  according  to  her,  once  formed  portion  of  her 
establishment;  the  four  beautiful  milch  cows  which  her 
husband  kept,  besides  sheep,  and  a  horse  and  ear,  and 
"bastes"  innumerable;  the  three  little  b'yes  they  buried, 
and  then  Barney — Barney,  the  jewel,  who  was  now  in 
America. 

"  The  finest  little  fella  ye  'd  see  between  this  an'  County 
Cork !  Over  six  fut,  he  is,  an'  wid  a  pair  o'  shoulders  on 
him  that  ye  'd  think  'ud  hardly  get  in  through  that  door 
beyant." 

"  Lonneys !  "  ^  said  Kate  admiringly. 

"  Ay,  indeed,  an'  ye  ought  to  see  the  beautiful  black 
curly  head  of  him,  an'  eyes  like  sloes,  an'  cheeks — why  I 
declare  " — half  raising  herself  and  speaking  with  great 
animation,  "  he  's  the  very  moral  o'  St.  Pathrick  over  there  I 
God  forgive  me  for  sayin'  such  a  thing,  but  raly  if  I  was  to 
drop  down  dead  this  minute  I  couldn't  but  think  it!  Now 
I  assure  ye,  Miss  Mahony,  he 's  the  very  image  of  that 
blessed  statye,  'pon  me  word !  " 

Miss  Mahony  looked  appreciatively  at  the  representa- 
tion of  the  patron  of  Ireland,  which  was  remarkable  no 
less  for  vigor  of  outline  and  coloring  than  for  conveying 
an  impression  of  exceeding  cheerfulness,  as  both  the  saint 
himself  and  the  serpent  which  was  wriggling  from  beneath 
his  feet  were  smiling  in  the  most  affable  manner. 

"  Mustn't  he  be  the  fine  boy  I  "  she  ejaculated,  after  a 
pause.  "  I  'd  love  to  see  him — but  I  '11  niver  get  a  chanst 
o'  that,  I  s'pose.  Will  he  be  comin'  here  to  see  ye, 
ma'am?  " 

"  He  '11  be  comin'  to  take  me  out  of  it,"  returned  the 
mother,  "  He  doesn't  ralv  know  I  'm  in  it  at  all.  I  '11 
tell  ye  now  the  way  it  is.     When  the  poor  father  died — the 

1  Lonneys,  an  expression  of  surprise. 


220  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

lij;ht  o'  hoavon  to  him — an'  bad  times  como,  and  wo  had  to 
give  lip  our  own  beautiful  little  place,  Barney  broui;ht  me 
to  town  an'  put  me  with  Mrs.  Byrne,  a  very  nice  respectable 
woman  that  was  married  to  a  second  cousin  o'  my  poor 
husband's,  an'  1  was  to  stop  with  her  till  he  came  back  from 
America  with  his  fortune  made. 

"  Well,"  pursued  ^Irs.  Brady,  drawinc;  in  her  breath  with 
a  suckiupj  sound,  w  liich  denoted  that  she  had  come  to  an  in- 
terestinji  part  of  her  narrative,  "  well,  he  kep'  sendin'  me 
money,  ye  know,  a  pound  or  maybe  thirty  shillin'  at  a  time 
— whenever  he  could,  the  poor  boy,  an'  I  was  able  to  work 
the  sewin'  machine  a  little,  an'  so  we  made  out  between  ns 
till  I  took  this  terrible  bad  turn.  A\'ell,  of  course  troubles 
niver  comes  si  utile,  an'  the  last  let!  her  1  got  from  my  poor 
little  f(dla  had  only  tifteen  shillin'  in  it,  an'  he  towld  me  he 
had  the  bad  luck  altogether,  but  says  he,  '  My  dear  mother, 
ye  must  on'y  howld  out  the  best  way  ye  can.  There  's  no 
work  to  be  got  in  this  place  at  all,  (New  York  I  think  it 
was).  '  P.ut  I  am  goin'  out  ^^'('st,'  says  he,  Mo  a  place 
where  1  'iii  towld  there's  fcn-tunes  made  in  no  time,  so  I  '11 
be  over  wid  ye  soon,'  he  says,  '  wid  a  power  o'  money  an' 
I  'm  sui-e  ^lary  Byrne '11  be  a  good  friend  to  ye  till  then. 
Tlie  worst  of  it  is,'  he  says,  Mt  's  a  terrible  wild  outlandish 
place,  and  T  can't  be  promisin'  ye  many  Iclthers,  for  God 
knows  if  there  'II  be  a  post-otlice  in  it  at  all,'  says  he,  Mint 
I  'II  be  thinkin'  of  ye  often,  an'  ye  must  keep  up  jour  heart,' 
he  says. 

"  Well,"  sucking  up  her  breath  again,  "  poor  INIrs.  Byrne 
done  all  she  could  for  me,  but  of  course  when  it  got  to  be 
weeks  an'  months  that  I  Avas  on  my  back  not  able  to  do  a 
hand's  turn  for  mcself,  an'  no  money  coniin'  an'  no  sign  o' 
liarney,  what  could  she  do,  poor  cratur?  One  day  Docther 
Isaacs  says  to  her,  *  Mrs.  Byrne,'  says  he,  '  why  don't  ye 
scud  ])ooi'  Mis.  Bi-ady  to  the  Infirmary?'  'What  In- 
finiiai-y,  sir?'  says  she.  'The  Union  Infirmary,'  says  he; 
'  it  's  the  on'y  X)lace  she's  fit  for  except  the  Incurables  in 
Dublin,'  says  he,  '  an'  I  'ni  afraid  there  's  no  chance  for  her 
there.'  '  Dh,  docther,  don't  mention  it!'  says  poor  Mrs. 
Byrne — she  was  telling  me  about  it  aftherwards.  '  Is  it 
the  rnlon?  I  wouldn't  name  it,'  she  says,  'to  a  decent 
reH[)ectable  woman  like  Mrs.  Brady.  Hhe  's  a  cousin  by 
marriage  o'  me  own,'  says  she.    '  1  wouldn't  name  it  to  her, 


MRS.    BLVNDELL.  221 

I  assure  ye.'  '  Just  as  you  please/  says  Docther  Isaacs. 
'  It  'ud  be  the  truest  kindness  you  could  do  her  all  the 
same,  for  slie  W  ^et  better  care  aud  uourislimeiit  than  you 
could  give  her.'  Well,  poor  Mrs.  Byrne  ke])'  turuin'  it  over 
in  her  inind,  but  she  ral}'^  couldn't  bring  herself  to  mention 
it  nor  wouldn't,  on^j  slie  was  druv  to  it  at  the  end,  the 
crature,  with  me  bein'  ill  so  long,  an'  the  rent  comin'  so 
lieavy  on  her  an'  all.  So  we  settled  it  between  the  two  of 
us  ^van  day,  an'  she  passed  me  her  word  to  bring  me 
Barney's  letther — if  e'er  a  wan  comes — the  very  minute  she 
gets  it,  an'  if  he  comes  himself  she  says  she  won't  let  on 
where  I  am,  all  at  wanst,  but  she  '11  tell  him  gradual. 
Sometimes  I  do  be  very  uuaisy  in  me  mind,  Miss  Mahony, 
I  assure  ye,  wondherin'  what  he  '11  say  when  he  hears.  I  'm 
afeared  he  '11  be  readv  to  kill  me  for  bringin'  such  a  dis- 
grace  on  him." 

"  Sure,  what  could  ye  do?  "  said  Kate,  a  little  tartly,  for 
naturally  enough,  as  "  an  inmate  "  of  many  j^ears'  stand- 
ing, she  did  not  quite  like  her  new  friend's  insistence  on 
this  point.  "  Troth,  it  \s  aisy  talkin',  but  it 's  not  so  aisy 
to  starve.  An'  afther  all,  there  's  many  a  one  that 's  worse 
off  nor  us  here,  I  can  tell  ye,  especially  since  the  Sisthers 
come,  God  bless  them,  with  their  holy  ways.  How  'd  ye 
like  to  be  beyant  at  Union,  where  the  nurses  gob- 
bles up  all  the  nourishment  that 's  ordhered  for  the 
poor  misfortunate  cratures  that 's  in  it,  an'  leaves  tliim 
sthretched  from  mornin'  till  night  without  doin'  a  hand's 
turn  for  them?  Ay,  an'  'ud  go  near  to  kill  them  if  they 
dar'd  let  on  to  the  docther.  Sure,  don't  I  know  well  how 
it  was  before  the  Sisthers  was  here — we  have  different 
times  now,  I  can  tell  ye.  Why,  that  very  statye  o'  St. 
Pathrick  that  ye  were  talkin'  of  a  while  ago,  wasn't  it 
them  brought  it?  An'  there  's  St.  Joseph  over  in  the  ward 
fornenst  this,  an'  St.  Elizabeth  an'  the  Holy  Mother  above. 
See  that  now.  Isn't  it  a  comfort  to  be  lookin'  at  them 
holy  tilings,  and  to  see  the  blessed  Sisthers  come  walkin' 
in  in  the  mornin'  wid  a  heavenly  smile  for  everj^  one  an' 
their  holy  eyes  lookin'  into  ever^^  hole  an'  corner  an'  spyin' 
out  what 's  wrong?  " 

"  Ay,  indeed,"  assented  Mrs.  Brady,  a  little  faintly, 
though,  for  however  grateful  she  might  be,  and  comforta- 


222  IRfSn    LITERATURE. 

ble  ill  the  main,  there  was  a  bitterness  in  the  thought  of 
her  "  come-down  "  that  nothing  could  alleviate. 

She  and  her  neighbor  were  excellent  friends  all  the 
same,  and  she  soon  shared  Kate's  enthusiasm  for  "  the 
Sisthers,"  tinding  comfort  moreover  in  the  discovery  that 
Sister  Louise  understood  and  sympathized  with  her  feel- 
ings, and  was  willing  to  receive  endless  confidences  on  the 
subject  of  the  "  little  boy,"  and  to  discuss  the  probability 
of  ills  speedy  advent  with  almost  as  much  eagerness  as 
herself. 

But  all  too  soon  it  became  evident  that  unless  Barney 
made  great  haste  another  than  he  would  take  Mrs.  Brady 
"  out  of  ■•  the  workhouse.  Grim  death  was  approaching 
with  rapid  strides,  and  one  day  the  priest  found  her  so 
weak  that  he  told  her  he  would  come  on  the  morrow  to 
hear  her  confession  and  to  give  her  the  last  Sacraments. 

Not  one  word  did  the  old  woman  utter  in  reply.  She  lay 
there  \\  itli  her  eyes  closed  and  her  poor  old  face  puckered 
up,  unheeding  all  Kate  Mahony's  attempts  at  consolation. 
These,  though  well  meant,  were  slightly  inconsistent,  as 
she  now  assured  her  friend  that  indeed  it  was  well  for  her, 
and  asked  who  wouldn't  be  glad  to  be  out  o'  that;  and  in 
the  next  momcjit  informed  her  that  nmybe  when  she  was 
anointed  she  might  find  herself  cured  an'  out,  as  many  a 
wan  had  before  her,  an'  wasn't  it  well  known  that  them 
that  the  priest  laid  his  holy  hands  on,  as  likely  as  not  took 
a  good  turn  immaydiate. 

Later  on  Sister  Louise  bent  over  Mrs.  Brady  with  gentle 
reassuring  words. 

"  God  knows  best,  you  know,"  she  said,  at  the  end  of  her 
little  homily;  "  you  will  say,  '  llis  will  be  done,'  won't 
you?  " 

"Sure,  SisthcT,  how  can  I?"  whispered  Mrs.  Brady, 
opening  hci'  troubled  eyes,  her  face  almost  awful  to  look 
on  in  its  gray  paHor.  "  How  can  I  say,  '  J  lis  will  be  done,' 
if  I  'm  to  die  in  the  workliouse?  An'  me  poor  little  boy 
comin'  as  fast  as  he  can  across  the  say  to  take  me  out  of 
it,  an'  me  breakin'  my  heart  prayin'  that  I  might  live  to  see 
the  day  I  An'  when  lie  comes  back  he  '11  find  the  parish  has 
me  buried.  Ah,  Sisther,  how  am  I  to  resign  meself  at  all? 
In  the  name  o'  (iod  how  (nii  I  lo  i-esign  meself?" 

The  tears  began  to  trickle  down  her  face,  and  Sister 


MRi^.    BLUNDELL.  223 

Louise  cried  a  little  too  for  sympathy,  and  stroked  Mrs. 
Brady's  liaud,  and  coaxed  and  cajoled  and  soothed  and 
preached  to  the  very  best  of  her  ahility ;  and  at  the  end  left 
her  patient  quiet  but  apparently  unconvinced. 

It  was  with  some  trepidation  that  she  approached  her 
on  the  morrow.  Mrs.  Brady's  attitude  was  so  unusual 
that  she  felt  anxious  and  alarmed.  As  a  rule  the  Irish 
poor  die  calmly  and  peacefully,  happy  in  their  faith  and 
resij^nation ;  but  this  poor  woman  stood  on  the  brink  of 
eternity-  with  a  heart  full  of  bitterness,  and  a  rebellious 
will. 

Mrs.  Brady's  first  words,  however,  reassured  her. 

"  Sisther,  I  'm  willin'  now  to  say,  '  His  will  be  done.' " 

"  Thank  God  for  that !  "  cried  Sister  Louise  fervently. 

"  Ay.  Well,  wait  till  I  tell  ye.  In  the  night,  when 
I  was  lyiujo;  awake,  I  took  to  lookin'  at  St.  Pathrick  beyant, 
wid  the  little  lamp  flickerin'  an'  flickerin'  an'  shinin'  on  his 
face,  an'  I  thought  o'  Barney,  an'  that  I  'd  niver  see  him 
agin,  an'  I  burst  out  cryin'.  'Oh,  St.  Pathrick!'  sajs  I, 
'  how  '11  I  ever  be  able  to  make  up  my  mind  to  it  at  all?  ' 
An'  St.  Pathrick  looked  back  at  me  rale  wicked.  An' 
'  oh,'  says  I,  again,  '  God  forgive  me,  but  sure  how  can  I 
help  it? '  An'  there  was  St.  Pathrick  still  wid  the  cross 
look  on  him  p'intin'  to  the  shamrock  in  his  hand,  as  much 
as  to  sav,  '  there  is  but  the  wan  God  in  three  divine  Per- 
sons,  an'  Him  ye  must  obey.'  So  then  I  took  to  batin'  me 
breast  an'  sayin',  '  the  will  o'  God  be  done ! '  an'  if  ye  '11 
believe  me,  Sisther,  the  next  time  I  took  heart  to  look  at 
St.  Pathrick  there  he  was  smilin'  for  all  the  world  the 
moral  o'  poor  Barney.  So,'  says  I,  '  after  that ! '  Well, 
Sisther,  the  will  o'  God  be  done  I  He  knows  best,  Sisther 
alanna,  doesn't  He?  But,"  with  a  weak  sob,  "  my  poor 
little  boy's  heart  'ill  be  broke  out  an'  out  when  he  finds  I  'm 
af ther  dyin'  in  the  workhouse !  " 

"  We  must  pray  for  him,"  said  the  Sister  softly ;  "  you 
must  pray  for  him  and  offer  up  the  sacrifice  that  God  asks 
of  you,  for  him.  Try  not  to  fret  so  much.  Barney  would 
not  like  you  to  fret.  He  would  grieve  terribly  if  he  saw 
you  like  this." 

"  Sure  he  would,"  said  Mrs.  Brady,  sobbing  again. 

"  Of  course  he  would.     But  if  he  heard  you  were  brave 


224  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

and  clioorfiil  over  it  all,  it  would  not  be  half  so  bad  for 
un. 

yiva.  Brady  lay  very  quiet  after  this,  and  seemed  to  re- 
flect. 

When  tlie  priest  came  presently  to  administer  the  Sae- 
ramenls  of  the  dying-  to  her,  she  roused  herself  and  re- 
ceived them  with  much  devotion;  and  presently'  beckoned 
Sister  Louise  to  approach. 

"  Sisther,  when  Barney  comes  axin'  for  me,  will  ye  give 
him  me  hades  an'  the  little  medal  that's  round  me  neck, 
an'  tell  liim  I  left  him  me  blessin' — will  ve,  dear?" 

"  Indeed  1  will." 

"  (lod  bless  ye.  An'  tc^ll  him,"  speakinii;  with  animation 
and  in  ratber  louder  tones,  "tell  him  I  didn't  fret  at  all, 
an'  died  quite  contint  an'  happy  an'— an'  thankful  to  be  in 
this  blessed  place  where  I  got  every  comfort.  Will  ye 
tell  him  that,  Sisther  alanna?  " 

The  Sister  bowed  her  head:  this  time  she  could  not 
Bpeak. 

•  ••••• 

It  was  nearly  two  months  afterwards  that  Sister  Louise 
was  summoned  to  the  parlor  to  see  "  ]Mr.  Brady,"  who  had 
recently  arrived  from  America,  and  to  whom  his  cousin, 
Mrs.  Byiiie,  had  broken  the  news  of  iiis  mother's  death. 

Sister  L<»uise  smiled  and  sighed  as  she  looked  at  this 
big,  8trai>]nng,  prosperous-looking  young  fellow,  and  re- 
membered his  mother's  description  of  him.  The  black 
eyes  and  curly  hair  and  rosy  cheeks  were  all  there,  cer- 
tainly, bnt  otherwise  the  likeness  to  "St.  Patrick"  was 
not  so  ytn-y  marked. 

"  xMr.  lliariy  wants  to  hear  all  nbout  his  mother.  Sister," 
said  the  Sister  Superior.  "This  is  Sister  Louise,  Mr. 
Br;idy,  who  attended  your  poor  mother  to  the  last." 

Mr.  lirady,  who  seemed  a  taciturn  youth,  rolled  his 
black  ey<'s  towards  the  new-comer  aixl  waited  foi'  her  to 
procee<]. 

Xi'vy  simply  did  Sister  Louise  tell  her  little  story,  dwell- 
ing on  such  of  his  mother's  sayings,  during  her  last  ill- 
ness, as  she  thouglit  might  interest  and  comfort  hira. 

"niere  are  hor  heads,  and  the  little  medal,  which  she 
always  wore.     She  left  tliein  to  you  witii  her  blessing." 

Bame}'  thrust  out  one  large  brown  hand  and  took  the 


MRS.    BLUNDELL.  225 

little  packet,  swallowini^  down  what  appeared  to  be  a  very 
large  lump  in  liis  throat. 

"  She  told  me,"  pursued  the  Sister  in  rather  tremulous 
tones,  "  to  tell  you  that  she  did  not  fret  at  all  at  the  last, 
and  died  content  and  happy.  Slie  did,  indeed,  and  she  told 
me  to  say  tliat  slie  was  tliankful  to  b(»  liere " 

But  Barney  interrupted  lier  with  a  sudden  increduh)us 
gesture,  and  a  big  sob.     "Ah,  whisht,  Sisther!"  he  said. 


FATHER    LALOR    IS    PROMOTED. 

From  'Miss  Erin.' 

Father  Lalor  was,  as  has  been  said,  much  distressed  at 
Erin's  present  attitude.  However  little  he  might  approve 
of  Mr.  Fitzgerald's  system  of  education,  there  was  no 
doubt  that  such  an  education  was  better  than  none;  and  to 
run  wild  as  she  was  now  doing  was,  for  a  girl  of  her  dis- 
position, pernicious  in  the  extreme.  But  he  was  getting 
very  old  now,  and  full  of  infirmities;  and  when  he  found 
his  remonstrances  and  prayers  of  no  avail,  he  gave  uj)  at- 
tempting to  slmke  her  resolution.  In  fact,  he  acknowl- 
edged himself  wholly  unable  to  cope  with  her.  He  did 
not  understand  this  tenderly  loved  little  friend  of  his.  Her 
enthusiasm  startled  him,  her  determination  distressed  him, 
her  passionate  nature  and  impatience  of  control  filled  him 
with  fears  for  her  future.  He  was  the  only  friend  she  had 
now,  and  he  was  failing  fast. 

"  Child,  child,  what  will  become  of  you  when  I  am 
gone?  "  he  groaned  once,  half  to  himself,  after  listening, 
with  anxious,  puzzled  face,  to  one  of  her  tirades. 

And  tlien  Erin  ceased  declaiming,  and  burst  into  tears. 

He  often  sighed  heavily  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  when 
she  asked  him  the  reason,  would  reply,  sighing  again: 

"  Old  age,  my  dear,  old  age." 

One  Ash  Wednesday  morning,  after  Father  Lalor  had 
distributed  as  usual  the  blessed  ashes  to  an  innumerable 
congregation — for  Ash  Wednesday  and  Palm  Sunday  are 
great  daj's  in  Ireland,  days  on  which  every  man,  woman, 


220  •      IRISH    LITERATURE. 

and  child  in  the  parish  rallies  round  the  priest — when  he 
had  imprinted  a  dusky  cross  on  the  forehead  of  the  last 
infant  of  tender  years  who  ai)])roaelied  the  altar  rails,  he 
straightened  liiiiiself,  and  stood  for  a  moment  lookin<i'  over 
his  sper(a<  les  at  tlie  crowded  ehnrch,  and  then  raised  his 
hand  in  blessing;  a  blessini;'  which  was  not  demanded  by 
the  rubrics,  but  which  was  prompted  by  the  fulness  of  his 
heart. 

"  ^loll,"  he  said  afterAvards,  when  he  was  seated  in  his 
parlor  waitiiip;  for  his  breakfast  and  his  housekeeper  came 
trotting  in,  her  foivhead  still  smeared  with  traces  of  the 
recent  ceremony,  and  her  cap  very  much  awry — "  ^loll,  do 
ye  know  I  have  a  kind  of  a  feeling  that  this  is  the  last  time 
I  '11  be  giving  ashes  in  Glenmor  chapel." 

"  Ah,  what  nonsense,  your  reverence,"  cried  Moll,  set- 
ting down  the  teapot  with  a  bang.  "  Glory  to  goodness, 
did  ever  any  one  hear  the  like  o'  that?  an'  you  well  an' 
hearty,  thank  God.  No,  but  it 's  fifty  times  more  you  '11  be 
givin'  ashes  in  Glenmor  chapel.  I  declare,  if  it  warn't 
3'ourself  was  afther  sayin'  it,  I  'd  be  threatenin'  to  tell  the 
pri(^st  on  ye." 

"  Well,  well,  ]\roll;  you  know  it  is  well  to  remember  one's 
last  end.  Memento,  homo,  quia  piilcis  cs,  ct  in  pidvcrum 
reverteris.  I  've  said  that  often  enough  to  day,  and  it 's  a 
good  thing  to  be  thinking  of.  Sure,  I  'm  going  on  eighty, 
^loll;  do  you  know  that?  Nearly  fifty-six  years  priest. 
Isn't  it  time  for  me  to  be  taking  a  rest?  Ay,  ay;  I  'd  be 
glad  enough  to  go,  only  for  one  thing.  But  the  Lord 
knows  best.  We  're  all  in  his  hands.  Moll,  is  that  what 
ye  call  tea,  woman  dear?  " 

"God  bless  us,  I  forgot  to  put  the  water  in  I  Sure,  ye 
have  me  moithered  altogether,  talkin'  that  way,"  wept 
Miss  Kiddick,  wiping  hci'  eyes  and  retiring  with  tlie  teapot. 

Father  Lalor  laughed  and  became  once  more  his  cheer- 
ful self,  and  Moll  forgot  his  presentiment  until  Mid-lent 
Sunday,  when  it  was  painfnlly  recalled  to  her  memory. 
Father  Lalor  had  a  particularly  slow  and  distinct  utter- 
ance in  saying  Mass,  every  word  being  audil)le.  What, 
then,  was  Mfdl's  surprise  and  terror  when  she  discovered 
that  on  Sunday,  and  ''  La'tare  "  Sunday  to  boot,  clad  more- 
over in  wjiite  v«'stments,  Father  Lalor  was  saying  Mass  for 
the  dead  I 


MRS.    BLUNDELL.  227 

Slio  could  not  wait  until  he  came  home  for  breakfast,  but 
went  into  the  sacristy  at  the  conclusion  of  the  service. 

She  found  him  standinjr,  still  in  chasuble  and  biretta,  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  with  a  curious  half-smile  on  his 
face. 

"  Ye 're  not  feelin'  quite  yerself  this  mornin',  are  3-6, 
sir?"  she  asked  him,  tremblini>ly. 

"  Moll,"  said  Father  Lalor,  "  it 's  a  queer  thinG; :  there  's 
— there  's  lead  in  my  shoes." 

"  CJod  bless  us,  yer  reverence,  how  'd  lead  "et  into  them  ? 
Didn't  I  clean  them  myself  last  night,  and  fetch  them  up  to 
ye  this  mornin'?  " 

"  It 's  there,  though,"  repeated  the  priest,  in  a  tone  of 
conviction,  "  I  feel  it  so  cold  and  so  hea\^,  Moll.  See — I 
can  hardly  lift  my  foot." 

He  made  an  attemi:)t  to  do  so,  but  fell  suddenly  prone  on 
his  face,  stiff  and  speechless:  a  leaden  hand  had  indeed 
gripped  him — he  had  a  paralytic  stroke. 

For  many  days  after  he  lay  motionless  and  unconscious, 
but  at  last  revived  in  some  degree,  though  it  was  plain  he 
would  never  leave  his  bed  again. 

Often,  even  before  his  power  of  speech  returned,  his  eyes 
would  rest  anxiously  on  Erin,  who  sat  by  his  bedside  with 
a  pale  face  and  woful  eyes.  She  could  scarcely  be  per- 
suaded to  eat  or  sleep;  and  even  when  forced  to  leave  the 
sick-room,  would  take  up  her  position  outside  the  door, 
where  she  would  crouch  for  hours  weeping,  or  praying  des- 
perately. 

One  evening  she  chanced  to  be  alone  with  him,  Mrs. 
Riley,  who  was  in  attendance,  having  left  the  room  for  a 
moment;  and  suddenly  he  spoke  in  the  feeble  stammering 
tones  with  which  they  had  become  familiar. 

'^  Erin,  my  pet — I  'm  going  from  ye — ye  know  that?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  father  I  I  can't  let  you  go.  God  will  make 
you  get  better,  I  am  praying  so  hard.  You  are  the  only 
friend  I  have  in  the  world.  God  will  not  take  you  away 
from  me." 

"  Faith,  my  dear,"  he  said,  with  something  of  his  old 
quaint  manner,  "  I  don't  see  whj'  we  should  expect  the 
Almighty-  to  perform  a  miracle  for  the  like  of  us.  And  it 
would  be  a  miracle,  Erin — nothing  less,  if  I  am  to  recover. 
No,  no ;  the  Lord  has  called  me,  and  I  '11  have  to  go,  child. 


228  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

He  's  askiii'  us  to  make  the  sacrifice  each  in  our  own  way — 
Tou  in  the  beiiinniiig  of  your  life,  and  I  at  the  end  of  mine. 
It 's  the  last  lie  '11  recjuire  of  me;  and  as  for  you,  ray  pet, 
vou  're  in  his  hands — I  leave  you  in  His  hands.  He  made 
you,  and  He  '11  protect  you.  Come  here,  child — close — and 
kneel  down.-' 

Erin  obeyed,  sobbing-,  and  the  old  man,  feebly  lifting  his 
hand,  marked  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  her  forehead. 

"  ]Mav  the  God  of  tiie  fatherless  be  with  you!  "  he  said. 
"  I  surrender  you  to  Him.  May  He  watch  over  you  in  all 
your  ways ! '' 

After  this  last  great  effort  he  ceased  to  take  any  interest 
in  earthly  things,  and  concerned  himself  wholly  with  his 
own  spiritual  affairs. 

**  AVhen  the  end  is  near,"  he  said  once,  with  his  quiet 
smile,  "  it  "s  just  the  same  for  priest  or  layman.  There  's 
only  yourself  and  God.  No  matter  how  many  souls  you 
maj'  have  had  to  look  after  in  your  lifetime,  at  the  last  you 
must  just  concern  yourself  with  your  own." 

One  day  he  asked  suddenly,  "  Do  you  hear  the  bell, 
Erin?" 

"  What  bell,  dear  father?     I  don't  hear  anything." 

"  I  thought,"  he  said,  knitting  his  brows,  as  though 
making  an  effort  to  concentrate  his  attention — "  I  thought 
I  heard  a  l)ell  tolling.  They  '11  all  be  praying  for  me,  won't 
they?  All  my  faithiul  people.  .  .  .  Come  to  his  assistance, 
all  ye  saints  of  God;  meet  him,  all  ye  angels  of  God;  re- 
ceive his  soul  and  present  it  now  before  its  Lord." 

Erin  leaned  forward,  startled;  the  old  man's  fixed,  un- 
recognizing  gaze  betokened  that  his  mind  was  wandering. 
He  continued  to  recite  slowly  and  impressively  the  prayers 
for  the  dying,  that  he  had  said  so  often  by  so  many  poor 
beds — his  voice  weak,  but  infinitely  solemn. 

"  May  Jesus  Christ  receive  thee,  and  the  angels  conduct 
thee  to  thy  place  of  rest.  May  the  angels  of  God  receive 
his  soul,  and  present  it  now  before  its  Lord.  .  .  .  Lord 
have  mercy  on  him,  Chi-ist  have  mercy  on  him.  Lord  have 
mercy  on  him.     Our  Father.  .  .  ." 

The  greater  part  of  this  prayer  being  said  "  in  secret," 
his  voice  dropped  suddenly;  but  he  seemed  to  lose  the  train 
of  thought,  and  presently  fell  into  a  doze.  His  mind,  how- 
ever, appeared  to  run  jx-rpetually  in  this  groove,  and  in 


MRS.    B  LUND  ELL.  229 

his  fancy  he  frequently  said  Mass  for  the  dead,  and  re- 
peated the  hist  blessing  and  th(;  litany  for  the  departing 
soul.  During  his  transient  moments  of  consciousness,  he 
Avas  still  busy  with  his  preparations  for  this  great  "  flit- 
ting." 

He  did  not  appear  afraid,  only  solemn,  and  deeply  in 
earnest.     One  day  he  said  with  pathetic  simplicity: 

"  I  think,  you  know — I  think  I  have  always  done  my 
best.  I  always  tried  to  do  my  best — and  God  knows  that. 
He  will  remember  that  when  T  go  to  my  account.  Fifty- 
six  years — lifty-six  years!  Think  of  all  the  souls  I  have 
had  the  charge  of  in  fifty-six  years.  And  I  must  render 
an  account  of  all;  an  account  of  all  .  .  .  but  I  think  I 
have  always  done  my  best." 

"  I  fancy,"  said  Mrs.  Riley,  that  same  evening — "  I 
fanc}^,  Moll,  that  I  can  see  a  change.  He  's  got  the  look, 
ye  know " 

"  Ay,  an'  the  color  's  altered,"  said  Moll. 

Both  women  had  been  weeping,  and  even  now  restrained 
their  tears  with  difiiculty.  There  was  a  kind  of  desperate 
resignation  in  their  look  and  manner  as  became  those  who 
were  bracing  themselves  up  to  bear  a  great  blow.  Erin 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  turning  sick  and  cold;  she 
had  never  been  so  near  death  before,  and  the  awfulness  of 
it  overwhelmed  her.  This  inevitable,  terrible,  unspeakable 
mystery,  which  was  about  to  be  brought  close  to  her,  by 
which  her  friend  and  father  would  be  snatched  away  from 
her,  even  while  she  clung  to  him — eternity  itself,  as  it 
were,  entering  the  homely  chamber  to  engulf  him  under 
her  very  eyes — for  a  moment  the  terror  of  it  outweighed 
her  anguish. 

She  crept  out  of  the  parlor,  where  this  colloquy  had 
taken  place,  and  went  upstairs  to  the  familiar  room,  stand- 
ing trembling,  with  her  hand  on  the  handle  of  the  door,  her 
heart  beating  violently.  But  presently  she  con(]uered  her- 
self and  entered,  all  her  fear  vanishing  at  the  first  sight  of 
the  dearly  loved  face.  It  had  changed  since  she  saw  it 
last,  but  for  the  better,  she  thought;  a  certain  settled 
majesty  of  line  and  expression  had  taken  possession  of  it 
— it  had  even  lost  the  drawn  look  which  it  had  worn  for 
so  many  days.  But  the  white  hair  lay  damp  and  heavy 
on  Father  Lalor's  brow,  and  he  breathed  with  difficulty. 


230  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

llv  smiled  at  her  as  she  approached,  and  then  his  thoughts 
lloated  away  from  her  aiiain  to  the  empire  of  that  vast 
woi'hl  which  he  was  so  soon  to  enter.  His  lips  moved,  and 
the  child  bent  over  him  to  listen. 

"  To  Thee,  O  Lord,  the  angels  cry  aloud "...  he 
murmured,  over  and  over  again. 

"  Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Riley,  who  had  followed  Erin  into  the 
room,  "  he  's  been  saying  it  ever  since  morning.  You  know 
what  it  is,  dear?  ...  It 's  from  the  7V  Dciiw." 

Moll  entered  presently,  with  the  priest  who  had  attended 
Father  Lalor  during  his  illness.  The  old  man  had  squared 
his  accounts  with  his  Master  long  before,  and  now  merely 
greeted  his  young  companion-in-arms  with  the  same  com- 
fortable smile  which  he  had  bestowed  on  Erin,  and  betook 
himself  again  to  the  great  half-open  gate  through  which  he 
had  already  caught  the  echo  of  angels'  voices.  It  was  his 
last  sign  of  recognition;  already  he  had  wandered  beyond 
their  reach,  though  they  clasped  his  hand  and  listened  to 
his  voice.  Erin's  young  and  passionately  human  heart 
rebelled;  he  was  there  still,  and  she  was  dearest  of  all  to 
him.  Would  he  not  look  at  her  once,  only  once  more,  re- 
turn a  single  pressure  of  her  hand?  She  thrust  her  poor, 
little,  eager,  quivering  face  forward  as  he  turned  his  head, 
and  cried  aloud : 

"  Oh,  father,  father,  dear  father,  speak  to  your  little 
Erin  I  Only  one  word — one  word.  Look  at  me,  just  look 
at  me,  to  show  you  hear  me." 

But  Father  Lalor  heard  no  more;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on 
things  that  she  could  not  see;  he  had  gone  too  far  on  his 
great  journey  to  pause  or  to  look  back. 

Erin  sank  down  on  her  knees  again,  and  for  some  time 
there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  that  of  the  patient's 
laboi-cd  breathing  and  the  low  tones  of  the  young  priest. 
Then  there  came  a  silence,  a  long  silence,  broken  at  last  by 
the  voice  of  the  old  man. 

"Mother!" 

ITe  had  raised  his  head  for  a  moment,  with  an  expression 
of  astonishment  and  unutteralde  joy — and  then  it  fell 
back. 

He  was  gone.  A  great  awe  fell  upon  them  all.  For  a 
moment  no  one  stirred  or  wept.     At  last — 


MRf^.    BLUXDELL.  231 

"  Our  mother  came  to  fetch  him,"  said  Mrs.  Riley,  trem- 
ulously. 

"  Oh,  no,  ma'am,  sure  it  was  the  Holy  Vir<^iu  herself  he 
saw,"  added  Moll,  stooping  to  kiss  the  inert  hand. 

Whether  it  was  indeed  the  mother  of  his  youth,  upon 
whom  the  white-haired  priest  called  with  his  last  breath, 
or  that  other  Mother,  whom  for  all  time  all  nations  shall 
call  blessed,  certain  it  is  that  he  died  with  that  hallowed 
word  upon  his  lips.  It  was  a  meet  end  to  his  most  simple 
and  innocent  life — as  a  little  child  he  entered  the  kingdom 
of  Ileaven. 


MATTHIAS    M'DONNELL    BODKIN. 

(1850 ) 

Matthias  M'Donnell  Bodkin,  K.C,  of  the  Irish  bar,  is  one  of 
the  modern  school  of  Irish  novehsts,  whose  works  are  permeated 
not  alone  with  the  characteristic  humor  of  the  people,  but  with  that 
strangely  blended  note  of  sadness  which  underlies  so  much  of  it. 

lie  was  born  on  the  Stli  of  October,  1850.  His  father  was  Dr. 
Thomas  Bodkin  of  County  Gal  way.  He  was  educated  at  the  Tulla- 
beg  Jesuit  College  and  at  the  Catholic  University.  He  gained  the 
double  gold  medal  of  the  law  students'  debating  society.  He  mar- 
ried in  1SS5,  and  shortly  afterward  was  elected  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment for  North  Roscommon,  but  Avas  unseated  in  1890. 

Among  his  books  may  be  mentioned  'Shillalegh  and  Shamrock,' 
'  Poteen  Punch  '  (a  series  of  stories  which  have  appeared  in  various 
Christmas  numbers  of  The  United  Irishman),  '  Pat  o'  Nine  Tails,' 
'Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald.'  'White  Magic,'  'Stolen  Life,'  'The 
Rebels,' '  Paul  Beck,'  '  Dora  Myrl,'  etc. 

THE   LORD   LIEUTENANT'S    ADVENTURE. 

From  'Poteen  Punch.' 

"nnlf-])iist  one,"  said  his  Excellency,  turnins:  to  his 
aidc-dc-cainp,  who  sat  beside  him  in  the  comfortable 
landau.  "  Still  a  full  hour  and  a  half  from  lunch;  perhaps 
I  should  say,  an  empty  hour  and  a-half.  I  am  beginning 
to  understand  what  they  tell  me  about '  the  pinch  of  hunger 
in  Connemara.'  There  is  famine  in  the  air.  I  am  not 
surprised  that  the  people  are  troubled  with  a  -superabun- 
dance of  appetite." 

"Your  Excellency  will  find  there  is  also  a  superabun- 
dance of  food,"  rejoined  the  private  secretary,  a  pale-faced 
abortion  with  a  jnnce-nez  and  an  incipient  mustache. 
"  You  will  get  a  luncheon  at  Maam  Hotel  you  could  not 
gel  in  London,^  To  talk  of  starvation  in  a  country  where 
there  are  such  grouse  on  the  mountains  and  such  trout  in 
the  lak(.'S  always  appeared  to  me  the  very  height  of  ab- 
surdity," and  he  smiled  a  complacent  little  smile  of  supe- 
rior wisdom. 

1  The  incident  herein  narrated  regarding  Lord  Carlisle  is  absolutely 
authentic,  and  occurred  about  If^OO. 

232 


MATTHIAS   MCDONNELL    BODKIN.  233 

His  Excellency  alyo  smiled — a  <»astrou()inic  smile,  in 
which  pleasant  memories  and  anticipations  were  curiously 
mingled.  He  leaned  back  on  the  cushions  and  gazed  with 
courteous  patronage — courteous  still,  though  slightly  bored 
— at  the  solemn  procession  of  mountains,  as  the  carriage 
bowled  swiftly  along  the  level  road  that  wound  among  the 
hills. 

It  was  a  glorious  spring  day.  High  over  head  were  the 
great,  clear  curves  of  the  mountains  against  the  blue  sky, 
and  here  and  there  bright  little  lakes  glittered  in  the  sun- 
shine like  flashing  jewels  set  in  the  bosom  of  the  hills. 

His  Excelleuc,y  had  fallen  into  a  dreamy  reverie,  in 
which  no  doubt,  were  pleasant  visions  of  broiled  trout  of 
a  golden  brown,  and  tender  grouse  and  champagne,  with 
the  cream  on  its  surface  and  the  bub}>les  rising  through 
the  liquid  amber.  No  word  more  was  spoken  until  the 
carriage  swept  suddenly  round  the  shoulder  of  a  mountain, 
and  came  upon  the  pleasant  inn  of  Maam,  with  the  tall  hill 
towering  up  into  the  sunshine  at  the  back,  and  in  front  the 
broad  flash  of  a  crystal  lake. 

Neither  to  lake  nor  mountain  were  the  eyes  or  thoughts 
of  his  Excellency  turned  at  the  moment.  He  missed  the 
flutter  of  excitement  which  the  Viceregal  arrival  had 
hitherto  provoked  at  the  pleasant  hotel  in  the  heart  of 
lonely  Connemara.  For  a  moment  the  dreadful  thought 
flashed  across  his  mind  that  the  special  courier  dispatched 
to  announce  his  arrival  had  miscarried,  but  he  promptly 
dismissed  the  fear  as  absurd.  The  carriage  swept  over 
the  bridge  in  front  of  the  hotel,  and  drew  up  with  a  flourish 
on  the  smooth  gravel  sweep  before  the  door.  Still  the 
place  seemed  as  silent  and  as  solitary  as  the  front  of  the 
bare  mountain  opposite.  The  footman  leaped  down  at 
once,  and  played  the  kettle-drum  on  the  knocker  with  such 
vigor  that  the  echo  might  be  heard  rolling  and  vibrating 
through  the  hills  as  if  a  hundred  hungry  giants  had  come 
home  together  to  dinner  and  forgotten  their  latch-keys. 
Not  a  sound  answered  from  within.  A  second  time  the 
knocker  was  plied  more  vigorously  than  the  first,  and  as 
the  echoes  died  away  in  the  dead  silence  that  followed  there 
was  heard  within  the  house  a  smothered,  mysterious  titter- 
ing, that  seemed  to  pervade  the  entire  building.  The  foot- 
man raised  the  knocker  for  the  third  time  as  if  to  batter 


234  llilSU    LITERATURE. 

in  the  door,  aud  at  the  same  moment  lie  almost  fell  forward 
on  his  face;  the  door  opened  suddenly,  aud  the  host  ap- 
peared, bhxkinj::  the  entrauee  with  his  sturdy  form.  In- 
stantly every  window  iu  front  was  peopled  with  grinning 
faies,  as  if  some  huge  practical  joke  was  in  progress. 

"  His  Excellency  the  Lord  Lieutenant,"  gasped  the 
gorgeous  flunkey  as  soon  as  he  recovered  a  little  from  his 
ninazement. 

"  Move  on,  my  good  man,  there  is  nothing  for  you  here," 
retorted  the  in  keeper,  with  an  impudent  grin,  as  if  address- 
ing an  importunate  beggar.  The  joke  was  emphasized  by 
a  roar  of  laughter  from  the  windows. 

Lord  Carlisle  was  speechless  for  a  moment  at  the  gro- 
tesque absurdity  of  the  whole  proceeding,  too  surprised  at 
first  to  feel  indignant.  He  thought,  so  far  as  he  had  power 
to  think  at  all,  that  the  host  had  gone  mad,  and,  on  the 
principle  of  "  birds  of  a  feather  flock  together,"  had  filled 
his  place  with  lunatics.  But  the  situation  was  a  desperate 
one.  Here  was  a  hungrj^ — a  very  hungry — Viceroy  in  the 
heart  of  a  desolate  region  with  a  dozen  Connemara  miles 
(the  longest  miles  in  the  world)  between  him  and  the  near- 
est food  and  shelter. 

Something  must  be  done.  He  stepped  past  the  petrified 
footman  and  confronted  the  host,  who  did  not  budge  an 
inch. 

''  My  good  fellow,"  said  he  with  his  blandest  smile,  "you 
surely  received  tlie  announcement  of  m^'  arrival?  " 

"  Ay,"  retorted  the  host,  "  and  got  my  orders  how  to 
welcome  you." 

"  Remember,"  said  Lord  Carlisle,  with  tremendous  dig- 
nity, "  I  am  the  representative  of  3^our  Sovereign." 

"And  I,"  rejoined  the  other,  "am  a  tenant  of  Lord 
Leitrim." 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  a  vague  suspicion  of  the  nature 
of  tjie  proceedings  dawned  on  his  Excellency.  He  rec- 
ognized the  terril)le  revenge  of  the  rack-renting  nobleman, 
but  he  tried  to  put  a  brave  face  on  his  fear. 

"  AVonld  you  insult  the  representative  of  the  Queen?" 
he  demanded. 

"The  landlord,"  replied  the  innkeeper,  insolently,  "is 
king  and  queen  in  Ireland,  and  all  the  royal  family  besides; 
no  one  knows  that  better  than  yourself."^   It  is  he  that  has 


MATTHIAS   M'DONNELL   BODKIN.  235 

filled  the  hotel  with  his  frieuds,  and  arraoged  a  welcome 
for  your  Excellency." 

"  What  kind  of  welcome  has  he  arranged  for  me? " 
asked  the  Viceroy,  hastily  betrayed  into  the  question. 

"  That,"  retorted  the  host,  suddenly  slamming  the  door 
of  the  inn  within  an  inch  of  tlie  Viceregal  nose. 

It  was  a  pleasant  position,  truly — standing  beside  his 
own  footman  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  hotel  door,  with  the 
whole  front  of  the  house  alive  with  faces  laughing  at  his 
discomfiture,  lie  turned  a  foolish  face  on  his  private 
secretary  and  aide-de-camp,  who  turned  still  more  foolish 
faces  upon  him.  A  storm  of  laughter  broke  out  from  the 
hotel,  so  loud  and  long,  that  it  set  all  the  giants  into  a  roar 
of  laughter  amongst  the  echoing  mountains. 

To  get  clean  out  of  tlie  place  was  clearly  the  first  thing 
to  be  done.  His  Excellency  could  never  tell  how  he  got 
back  into  his  carriage  or  outside  the  inhospitable  gates, 
with  roars  of  laughter  all  the  time  ringing  in  his  ears.  The 
coachnmn  drove  on  instinctively  a  couple  of  hundred  yards 
from  the  place,  then  pulled  his  horses  on  their  haunches  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  and  stood  stock-still  awaiting  in- 
structions. The  prospect  was  not  a  pleasant  one.  Tlie 
midday  splendor  of  the  spring  day  was  over.  A  chill 
breeze  came  blowing  up  from  the  west  with  a  damp  raw^- 
ness  in  it  that  told  of  coming  rain.  Croagli  Patrick  clapped 
his  gray  nightcap  firmly  down  on  his  high  bald  pate,  which 
is  the  signal  for  putting  out  the  light  in  those  deso- 
late regions.  Sure  enough,  a  heavy  cloud  at  the  moment 
came  drifting  across  the  sun,  and  the  whole  brightness  and 
charm  of  the  wild  landscape  vanished  in  a  moment.  The 
bleak  moorland  stretched  away  to  the  gray  horizon,  broken 
by  broad  patches  of  dull  water,  whose  surface  was  already 
pockpitted  by  the  raindrops,  and  the  mountains  frowned 
dismally,  like  sulky  giants,  in  the  gathering  gloom.  Be- 
hind them,  the  road  wound,  like  a  long  white  ribbon,  back 
towards  Gal  way,  and  turned  out  of  sight  round  the  corner 
of  a  mountain.  In  front  it  stretched  on  towards  Cong, 
till  the  ribbon  dwindled  to  a  thread,  and  the  eye  lost  it. 
The  carriage  stood  stock-still  on  the  road,  waiting  for 
orders,  but  no  orders  were  given.  So  it  might  have  waited 
for  an  hour  if  the  horses'  impatience,  reacting  on  the  coach- 
man, had  not  temjjted  him  to  break  silence. 


23fi  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

'*  A\'bere  to  now,  your  Excellenc}^?  ''  he  inquired,  dis- 
mallj'  enough. 

"  To  bl — zesi  "  answered  his  Excellency. 

It  was  the  first  time  the  smooth,  smiling  lips  of  Lord 
Carlisle  had  shaped  a  profane  syllable.  Before  decorum 
could  stop  the  words  they  were  out.  But  decorum  re- 
sumed command  the  next  instant. 

"Ay,  to  blazes,  to  be  sure,''  he  continued,  in  quite  an 
altered  tone  of  voice,  with  a  look  of  mihl  reproach  at  the 
tittering  aide-de-camp.  "  But  what  blazes?  that  is  the 
question.  The  blaziuL!;  fire  that  this  morning  browned  our 
toast  in  the  best  parlor  of  Mack's  Hotel  in  Galwa}^,  or  the 
blazes  that  are  perhaps  kindly  cooking  our  dinners  in 
Cong?  Any  blazes,  or,  at  least,  almost  any  blazes,  were 
welcome  on  such  an  evening  as  this."  lie  gazed  as  he 
spoke,  with  a  half  shudder,  at  the  rain-blotted  landscape, 
and  smiled  a  sickly  smile  at  his  own  sickly  pleasantries. 

"  Cong  is  the  nearest  refuge — perhaps,  I  should  rather 
say  Galway  is  tlie  farther  of  the  two,  yoviv  Excellency,"  in- 
terposed the  private  secretary. 

"  Then  to  Cong  let  it  be,"  said  Lord  Carlisle,  leaning 
back  in  his  carriage,  with  a  look  of  patient  resignation. 

I  am  not  cruel  enough  to  ask  the  gentle  reader  (how  I 
love  the  good  old-fashioned  phrase  I)  to  hang  on  behind  the 
Mceregal  coach  for  that  dreary  drive  in  the  pelting  rain 
for  twelve  Connemara  miles,  with  weary  horses,  along  the 
muddy,  mountain  roads.  With  that  power  which  is  given 
to  me  I  will  lift  him  up,  snug  and  warm,  and  set  him  down 
under  a  porcb,  sheltered  from  rain  and  storm,  in  the  lit- 
tle village  of  Cong,  just  as  the  Viceregal  carriage  comes 
floundering  along  through  tbe  pools  of  water  that  shine  in 
the  light  of  the  flickering  oil-lamps  in  the  streets,  and 
draws  up  in  front  of  the  principal,  because  only,  hotel  in 
the  town. 

Unlike  the  hotel  from  which  they  parted  a  good  three 
hours  ago,  at  Maam,  the  house  is  ablaze  with  light,  and 
redolent  \\\\\\  savory  odors.  Now  and  again,  from  inside, 
a  burst  of  jolly  laughter  drowns  the  fretful  whining  of  the 
wind. 

The  very  look  of  the  place  seemed  to  bid  a  cordial  wel- 
come to  the  wet,  weary,  and  hungry  travelers.  A  smile 
began  to  dawn  on  the  pale  face  of  his  Excellency,  as   eyes, 


MATTHIAS   iFDONNELL    BODKIN.  237 

ears,  and  nostrils  <?ave  him  proniiso  of  a  pleasant  fare  and 
comfortable  quarters.  The  flickerin*;-  smile  disappeared 
in  black  despair  when  the  host,  whom  a  thundering  peal 
upon  the  knocker  brought  to  the  door,  spoke  almost  the 
same  words  as  the  churl  of  Maam,  "  No  room  for  you  here." 

But  though  the  words  were  the  same,  the  manner  of 
speaking  was  very  different,  and  there  was  a  look  of  com- 
passion for  the  belated  compauA^  on  the  host's  jolly  face,  as 
he  stood  in  the  passage  through  which  bright  light  and 
genial  warmth  and  pleasant  odors  streamed  out  on  the 
damp  darkness  of  the  night. 

"  Xo  room,"  he  repeated,  and  prepared  to  shut  the  door. 

Then  Lord  Carlisle's  dignity  yielded  to  his  despair.  "  I 
am  the  Lord  Lieutenant !  "  he  cried  from  his  carriage. 

"  I  could  not  let  you  in  if  you  were  the  King,"  retorted 
the  other.  "  Not  if  you  were  the  Pope  of  Rome,  could  you 
get  in  without  leave." 

"  Who  says  a  word  against  my  good  friend,  his  Holi- 
ness? "  cried  a  rich  jovial  voice  behind  them,  and  the  host 
drew  aside  respectfully,  as  a  tall,  burly  figure,  with  a  big 
face,  as  full  of  good  humor  as  the  sun  is  of  light  at  mid- 
day, came  striding  down  the  passage  and  met  the  Viceroy 
face  to  face  at  the  door. 

"  Big  Joel  "  cried  Lord  Carlisle  in  delighted  amazement. 

"  Your  Excellency,"  responded  the  other,  with  old- 
fashioned  courtesy,  "  now  and  always  at  your  service." 

"  Never  needed  it  more,  Joe,"  responded  Lord  Carlisle 
pitifully.  "  I  'd  give  my  Garter  for  a  dinner  and  bed.  I 
have  been  turned  like  a  beggarman  out  of  all  the  hotels  in 
Connemara." 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  will  find  it  hard  to  get  in  here,"  said 
Big  Joe.  "  You  see,  you  are  not  the  kind  of  guest  that  was 
expected,  and  I  don't  think  you  would  like  the  company 
any  more  than  they  'd  like  you." 

"  Any  company  is  good  enough  for  me,"  said  the  other 
entreatingly,  ''  if  Big  Joe  ]M'r)onnell  is  amongst  them. 
But  a  good  dinner  would  make  the  worst  company  in  the 
world  pleasant  to  me  now." 

Big  Joe  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  I  '11  tell  you  the 
whole  truth,"  he  said,  "  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  V/e 
hold  our  Patrick's-day  dinner  here  to-night.  Every  man 
is  bound  to  tell  a  story  or  drink  a  quart  of  salt  water;  so 


238  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

there  will  bo  a  good  iiiaii.y  stories/'  he  added,  with  hiinior- 
oils  twinkles  iu  his  eyes,  "and  they  mi«>ht  not  all  suit  the 
ears  of  his  ExcelleucY.'' 

"  LTis  Excellenev's  ears  are  neither  as  loua;  nor  as  tender 
as  a  donkey's,"  was  the  curt  reply,  "  and  his  Exeelleuc3'''s 
teeth  are  as  hun<irv  as  a  wolf's.'' 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  mind  hearing  they  might  mind 
telling."  said  Joe.  "  There  is  very  little  Castle  company 
amongst  us  to-niglit,  and  some  of  the  yarns  spun  might  be 
twisted  into  a  hemp  cravat  for  the  neck  of  the  spinner." 

Lord  Carlisle  drew  himself  uj)  haughtily,  with  an  in- 
dignant tlush  upon  his  handsome  old  face.  "  I  have  sat  at 
your  table,"  he  said,  "  and  you  have  sat  at  mine.  I  did 
not  expect  that  insinuation  from  Joe  ]M'Donnell.  There 
is  some  honor  yet  left  even  amongst  Irish  Lord  Lieuten- 
ants.'' 

Joe  clapped  his  great  hand  on  his  shoulder  as  he 
turned  and  faced  him  frankly.  "Pardon,"  he  said;  "it 
was  only  a  rough  jest.  I  '11  answer  to  my  friends  for  your 
honor,  and  let  him  that  questions  it  answer  to  me.  But 
your  story?  They  won't  let  you  off  the  story  or  a  quart 
of  salt  water." 

"  A  dinner  is  cheaply  bought  by  a  story,"  said  the 
courtly  old  nobleman,  his  good  humor  completely  re- 
stored. "  It  is  not  often  thev  hear  the  misadventures  of  a 
Viceroy  from  his  own  lips.  I  will  tell  them  why  Lord 
Leitrim  slammed  the  door  of  the  INIaam  hotel  in  my  face; 
a  story  at  present  known  but  to  one  other  person,  besides 
myself,  in  the  world." 

"  Bravo,"  said  Joe.  "  One  moment,  and  I  will  be  with 
you  again."  He  went  up  the  stairs  three  steps  at  a  time, 
and  returned  in  a  moment,  more  radiant  than  ever. 

"  They  have  voted  you  to  the  chair,"  he  said,  "  and  have 
made  room  for  your  aide  and  private  sec." 

"And  Captain  Phunkit,  ex-Commissioner  of  Police?" 
said  his  Excellency;  "the  poor  devil  travels  in  my  suite. 
Now,  that  his  teeth  are  drawn,  your  friends  can  afford  to 
forgive  him." 

"An  ill-fonditioned  dog,"  said  Joe,  with  a  frown  for  a 
monifnt  dai-kening  his  face  like  a  cloud  on  the  sun;  but  it 
lit  up  again  in  a  moment.  "Let  him  come  in,"  he  said; 
"  if  he  were  the  devil  himself  it  is  no  night  to  shut  him  out. 


MATT  HI  AH    M'DOXXELL    JiODKIX.  239 

He  '11  hear  some  stories  to-night  that  will  make  his  punch 
disagree  with  him." 

There  was  no  time  for  introduction  when  his  Excellency 
reached  the  large,  warm,  and  comfortahle  room.  The  din- 
ner was  being  served  as  he  entered.  lie  was  seated  at 
once  in  his  great  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table,  with  the 
genial  heat  of  the  roaring  fire  percolating  through  the 
screen  at  his  back,  and  a  plate  of  steaming  hare  souj)  in 
front  of  him,  before  he  fully  realized  the  pleasant  change 
of  situation.  The  guests  will  introduce  themselves  later 
on,  just  now  they  are  too  hungry  for  much  ceremony'. 

I  rejoiced  just  now  that  I  was  able  to  save  my  readers 
the  weary  drive  in  the  rain  from  Maam  to  Cong ;  I  regret  I 
cannot  invite  them  to  share  the  dinner. 

It  was  worth  sharing.  It  was,  above  all  things,  a  sub- 
stanlial  repast — substantial  and  luxurious  as  well.  At 
the  head  of  the  table,  filling  the  room  with  incense,  Avas 
a  haunch  of  venison  that  might  have  extorted  the  praises  of 
Abbot  Boniface  of  '  The  Monaster}^,'  and  flesh  and  fowl, 
roast  and  boiled,  were  set  at  close  intervals  round  tlie 
board.  The  conversation  and  laughter  mingled  pleasantly 
with  the  feast. 

"  Sounded  there  the  noisy  glee 
Of  a  reveling  company  ; 
Sprightly  story,  meiTy  jest, 
Rated  servant,  greeted  guest  ; 
Flow  of  "vvine,  and  flight  of  cork. 
Stroke  of  knife,  and  thrust  of  fork." 

Good  humor  and  good  fellowship  had  reached  their 
climax  when  the  cloth  was  removed,  and  the  shining  ma- 
hogany was  spread  with  glasses  that  sparkled  and  steam- 
ing brass  kettles  that  twinkled  in  the  candle-light.  Bowls 
of  sugar  were  set  round  like  a  miniature  rockery,  and 
fragrant  lemons  were  scattered  amongst  them.  To  crown 
all  there  were  ranged  at  close  intervals  great  square,  cut- 
class  bottles,  filled  with  that  most  celestial  of  all  fluids — 
Irish  poteen — honestly  made  and  matured,  "  hid  for  a  long 
time  in  the  deep  delved  earth,"  hiding  its  potency  under  a 
soft,  sweet  savor — mild  as  milk,  and  mellow  as  honey. 
Truly  it  was,  in  the  words  of  the  poet,  "  a  balmy  liquor, 
crystalline  of  hue."     Soon  a  tender  vapor  filled  the  room 


210  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

from  the  steaminjjc  tumblers — a  magic  haze  mingling  with 
which  life's  troubles  seemed  to  vanish  into  thin  vapor. 

Heretofore  the  world  (unlike  the  churlish  Lord  Leitrim) 
liad  opened  her  inn  doors  wide  for  his  Excellency  Lord 
Carlisle,  and  given  him  of  her  best.  Xo  pleasure  had  been 
denied  him.  The  rarest  wines  that  had  ever  held  in  their 
licjuid  gold  or  purple  the  imprisoned  sunlight  of  the  South 
had  gratified  his  discriminating  palate.  He  had  drank 
(in  moderation)  from  the  intoxicating  cup  of  power, 
drained  deeply  of  the  delicious  draught  of  flattery,  and 
sipped  daintily  of  love.  But  he  felt  that  life's  highest 
pleasure  had  at  length  been  reached  when,  amid  appropri- 
ate surroundings,  while  the  wind  howled  without,  and  the 
fire  roared  within,  and  bright  lights  and  brighter  faces 
shone  around  the  festive  board,  he  tasted  for  the  first  time 
in  his  existence  that  divine  essence — Poteen  Punch.  He 
felt  a  genial  glow  suddenly  prevading  his  body  and  min- 
gling with  the  blood  that  coursed  warmer  and  more  lively 
through  his  veins.  The  elixir  of  life,  he  thought,  had  been 
discovered  at  last. 

He  tapped  gently  with  his  silver  ladle  on  the  shining 
mahogany,  from  whose  polished  surface  another  ladle  rose 
to  meet  it.  All  eyes  were  instantly  turned  towards  the 
head  of  the  table. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  his  Excellency,  "  I  am  about  to  re- 
deem the  pledge  which  has  made  me  partaker  of  your 
festivity.  Surely  a  light  penalty  for  so  great  a  pleasure. 
I  will  tell  you  the  stor^-  of  my  coming  here.  The  cause  and 
motive  of  the  delightful  degradation  to  which  I  have  been 
subjected  by  Lord  Leitrim.     I  say  delightful,  advisedly. 

"  A  couple  of  hours  since  this  topic  was  the  most  hate- 
ful, this  remembrance  the  most  miserable  in  my  life.  The 
magic  of  your  society  has  made  it  an  al)ounding  pleasure. 

Above  all ''     Here  he  paused,  as  if  words  failed  him. 

He  lifted  his  steaming  tumbler  to  his  lips,  and  tasted  again 
the  reviving  nectar.  "  Surely,"  he  murmured  softly,  as  he 
set  it  upon  the  table,  "  the  liquor  is  not  earthly.  I  will 
tell  you,  genth'iiien,"  he  resumed,  "  if  you  will  permit  me, 
the  haj»i)y  chance,  herefon?  esteemed  miserable,  to  which  I 
am  in(l('l>(ed  for  the  pleasures  of  to-night.  I  will  tell  you 
what  no  mortal  l)ut  he  and  I  know  at  this  moment,  and 
what  may  puzzle  future  generations. 


MATTHIAS    MCDONNELL    BODKIN.  241 

WHY   LORD  LEITRIM   SLAMMED  THE  DOOR. 

"  Lord  Leiti'im  and  I  were  the  best  of  friends  when  I 
first  came  to  Irehiud.  We  used  to  shoot  a  great  deal  to- 
gether in  Conneniara.  Leitrim  had  a  considerable  estate 
nearMaam;  and  as  he  generally  had  some  evictions  in 
progress  there,  he  managed  to  combine  business  with 
amusement.  For  me,  I  confess  those  were  very  happy  days. 
I  have  ever  loved,"  said  his  lordship,  lapsing  unconsciously 
into  the  oratorical  vein,  "•  the  contemplation  of  human  vir- 
tue. The  frugality  and  the  industry  of  the  peasantry,  and, 
above  all,  their  becoming  reverence  for  those  whom  Provi- 
dence had  placed  over  them  touched  my  heart.  These  men 
and  their  families  were  actuallv  starving.  Thev  were 
clothed  like  scarecrows  and  lodged  like  pigs.  Yet  they 
crowded  in  to  pay  every  farthing  of  their  earning  into  the 
hands  of  the  landlord  or  his  agents.  They  stood  with  trem- 
bling knees  and  uncovered  heads  in  his  presence,  and  an- 
swered his  taunt  or  curse  with  a  blessing  '  on  his  Honor.' 
So  great  and  beneficial  an  effect  has  the  distinction  of  sta- 
tion, which  the  unthinking  would  condemn,  upon  the  har- 
mony of  the  universe. 

"  The  contemplation  of  such  primitive  virtue  was  to  my 
sensitive  soul  more  pleasurable  than  the  slaughter  of  in- 
nocent birds.  I  therefore  frequently  remained  at  home, 
while  Leitrim  pursued  his  sport  alone  on  the  mountains. 
As  Gaskin  has  said,  in  his  admirable  and  immortal  col- 
lection of  my  speeches,  addresses,  and  poems,  which  I 
humbly  assure  you  would  well  repay  perusal,  '  I  was 
always  a  patron  of  elegant  literature.' 

"  So  it  chanced  that  I  sat  one  autumn  evening  at  the 
open  window  of  the  hotel,  with  a  litter  of  manuscript 
around  me,  now  smoothing  sentences  for  an  address  to  an 
agricultural  meeting,  now  hunting  up  rhymes  for  an  ex- 
tempore poem.  The  scene  was  propitious  to  the  muse. 
On  the  left  lay  a  miniature  lake,  its  smooth  water  turned 
to  burnished  gold  by  the  slanting  suuliglit,  with  a  minia- 
ture castle  balanced  on  a  miniature  island  in  its  center. 
Down  to  the  lake  came  leaping  a  torrent  with  glimpses  of 
the  sunlight  on  its  waves.  Beyond,  a  perfect  wilderness 
of  hills  stretched  away  in  dim  outlines  to  the  distant 
horizon.     But  one  great  mountain  rose  dark  and  threaten- 

16 


•2V2  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

iiiU'  in  tho  near  foT'euround,  with  an  annry  flush  of  purple 
Iicath  upon  its  massive  face.  On  this  mountain  I  knew 
that  Leitrim  was  at  that  moment  euga<;eil  in  j;rouse-shoot- 
injr.  Indoors  or  out  there  was  no  stir  or  sound  of  life. 
Dead  silence  in  the  room,  dead  silence  outside.  The 
dreary  lifelessness  of  that  vast  landscape  grew  intolerably 
awful.  I  could  not  <iO  on  with  my  verses  or  my  address. 
Takimi-  up  an  exccUent  tek'scope,  I  l)e«;an,  from  sheer 
loneliness,  to  search  for  Lord  Leitrim  and  his  dogs  on  the 
distant  mountainside. 

''  It  was  a  splendid  glass.  As  I  looked  through  it  the 
great  mountain  moved  in  close  to  the  window,  and  rocks 
and  knolls,  and  sheep-tracks  and  little  brawling  streams, 
came  out  upon  its  smooth  purple  surface.  A  mountain 
sheep  uj)  on  the  giddy  height  munching  the  scanty  pasture, 
under  the  shelter  of  a  great  gray  rock,  was  quite  company 
to  me  in  the  midst  of  the  universal  stillness  and  desolation. 
I  left  my  sheep  with  reluctance  and  swept  the  A'ast  moun- 
tainside with  my  glass  in  search  of  Lord  Leitrim.  At 
length  I  found  him  moving  slowl}^  down  the  shoulder  of  the 
hill,  with  his  gun  under  his  arm  and  the  dogs  ranging  in 
wide  circles  in  front.  Almost  an  instant  after  he  came 
within  the  focus  I  observed  him  lift  his  gun  suddenly  from 
under  his  arm,  and  move  forward  Avith  (|uickened  step  in 
the  direction  of  the  dogs.  They  were  on  a  dead  set.  As 
his  lordship  reached  them  they  moved  on  with  short  con- 
vulsive starts,  till  a  hare  leaped  out  from  cover  about 
twenty  yards  in  front.  For  an  instant,  as  he  leaped  on  a 
sharp  knoll  in  front,  his  form  was  clearly  outlined;  in  that 
instant  the  gun  was  steadily  pointed  and  discharged.  I 
could  see  the  Hash  through  my  glass,  though  I  heard  no 
sound,  and  I  could  see  Uw.  dead  hare  roll  down  the  hill. 
One  of  the  dogs,  an  old  i)ointer,  Carlow,  lay  quite  still, 
with  his  big  head  on  the  ground,  when  the  hare  got  up;  the 
other,  a  beautiful  young  Irish  setter,  '  Bow-wow,'  bounded 
a  few  paces  in  i)ursuit.  He  checked  himself  in  an  instant 
and  stood  at  gaze,  with  head  erect  and  stillened  lind)s,  and 
tail  stretched  out  like  an  ostrich  plume — a  perfect  model 
of  canine  beauty.  I  saw  Lord  Leitrim,  as  the  hare  fell, 
tuiii  deliberately  and  shoot  the  dog  with  the  left  barrel. 
The  ])or)r  brute  dioj)ped  in  his  tracks. 

*'  I    watclie(l    him    through    the   telescope,    writhing    in 


MATTHIAS    M'DOXNELL    BODKIN.  243 

ajijony,  until  liis  limbs  stilTciicd  in  dcnlli,  and  llicn  moved 
tlu;  i'lass  on  in  ])nrsuit  of  his  lordship.  I  noliecd  thai  ho. 
^vas  now  walkini;  faster  than  before,  and  I  moved  the  glass 
on  in  front  in  search  of  the  canse.  A  j^leam  of  scarlet 
flashed  into  the  lield  of  the  telescope,  and  his  lordship  was 
instantly  fornotten  in  the  gracefnl  fi|];'ure  that  I  saw  step- 
pinj>-  lif^htly  n])  the  mountain  alonj^  the  narrow  ])ath  that 
led  from  ^laam  to  Lenane.  I  have  traveled  a  good  deal  in 
my  life,  though  circumstances  have  compelled  me  to  lead 
a  Yerj  sedentary  life  of  late.  I  was  always  an  appreciative 
admirer  of  the  female  form  divine,  and  was  always  of 
opinion  that  the  Irish  peasant  girl  is  the  most  graceful 
woman  in  the  world.  I  could  get  little  more  than  the  out- 
line of  the  face  and  figure  through  the  glass,  but  I  knew  it 
was  a  figure  of  surpassing  grace  and  a  face  of  surpassing 
beauty. 

"  She  was  dressed  in  a  scarlet  petticoat,  with  a  plaid 
shawlet  folded  across  her  bosom,  her  dark  hair  smoothly 
parted  over  her  forehead.  Her  naked  feet  gleamed 
whitely  through  the  dark  heather,  as  she  moved  swiftly, 
with  light  elastic  step,  up  the  side  of  the  mountain.  In 
the  pleasure  with  w'hich  I  watched  her.  Lord  Leitrim  was, 
as  I  said,  forgotten.  I  followed  her  movements  with  the 
glass,  and  was  absolutely  startled  when  Lord  Leitrim 
stepped  suddenly  from  the  other  side  into  the  field  of 
vision. 

"  He  advanced  towards  her  with  the  confident  air  of 
an  old  acquaintance.  I  could  see  that  she  was  embar- 
rassed and  abashed.  Then  there  seemed  to  be  some  con- 
versation between  them,  for  he  pointed  with  his  hand 
down  towards  a  poverty-stricken  village  on  his  property 
on  the  skirt  of  the  mountain,  while  the  girl  stood  with 
drooped  head,  and  I  could  swear  she  was  blushing.  Then 
with  a  quick,  graceful  little  curtsey,  she  tried  to  slip  past, 
but  he  caught  her  round  the  waist  with  arrogant  gallantry, 
and  strove  roughly  for  a  kiss.  Even  while  the  girl  was 
struggling  in  his  arms,  and  while  I  watched  the  struggle 
with  intense  interest,  another  figure  sprang  suddenly  into 
the  circle  of  mountain  slope  that  was  covered  by  my  glass; 
the  strong  hand  of  a  stalwart  young  peasant  was  laid  upon 
Leitrim's  shoulder,  and  he  went  reeling  back  three  paces. 
lie  recovered  Wmself  in  an  instant,  caught  up  his  gun, 


ilU  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

which  he  had  rested  upon  a  rock,  and  leveled  it  at  his 
younp:  assailant.  Bnt  the  young  mountaineer  was  too  quick 
for  him.  Spiingini;-  lightly  forward,  with  his  left  hand  he 
flung  u]>  the  gun  almost,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  the  flash  and 
smoke  issued  from  the  barrel,  while  a  strong  straight  blow 
from  his  right  hand  made  his  lordship  measure  his  aristo- 
cratic length  upon  the  heather.  Then,  with  a  gesture  of 
terror,  the  young  girl  seized  his  arm  and  pulled  him  away, 
and  both,  moving  swiftly  round  the  shoulder  of  the  hill, 
were  lost  to  view.  Lord  Leitrim  picked  himself  up  slowly 
from  the  ground  and  gazed  sullenly  after  the  pair,  as  if 
meditating  a  pursuit;  but  he  quickly  abandoned  the 
thought,  if  he  entertained  it,  and,  followed  by  the  solitary 
pointer,  moved  steadily  down  the  hill  in  the  direction  of 
the  nearest  police  barrack.  The  pleasurable  excitement 
of  the  little  drama  I  had  witnessed  indisposed  me  to 
further  literary  labor  for  the  day.  The  scene  had  been 
the  more  startling  and  vision-like,  as  I  could  only  see,  not 
hear,  and  the  whole  had  rapidly  passed  in  dumb  show  be- 
fore mv  eves  like  a  drama  of  ghosts. 

"  So  with  a  mild  cigar  for  my  companion,  I  set  out  for  a 
solitary  stroll  round  the  borders  of  the  lake.  An  hour 
afterwards  I  found  Lord  Leitrim  awaiting  my  arrival  at 
the  hotel,  and  in  a  brief  space  of  time  we  were  sitting 
tete-a-tete  discussing  an  excellent  dinner,  of  which  the 
trout  from  the  lake  and  the  grouse  from  the  mountain 
formed  delicious  accessories.  His  lordship  ate  heartily 
and  drank  heavily,  and  was,  for  him,  in  exceptionally  good 
spirits;  but  not  one  word  passed  his  lips  as  to  the  scene  I 
had  so  strangely  witnessed.  lie  left  next  morning  early 
for  Clifden,  and  I  saw  him  no  more  during  my  visit.  A 
few  days  afterwards  I  was  enlightened  by  the  waiter,  a 
sleek,  smooth-faced  fellow,  whom  I  had  heard  described 
by  his  fellow-servants  as  ^  a  slevcen.' 

"  '  Quare  goings  on,  your  Excellency,'  he  said,  as  he  laid 
a  delicately  browned  trout  before  me  on  the  breakfast 
table.  '  Quare  goings  on  entirely,  be  all  accounts,  on  the 
mountain.  The  other  morning,  your  Excellency  will  re- 
nn*mber,  whin  his  lordship  was  out  on  the  mountain,  didn't 
young  Mark  Joyce  think  to  take  his  life,  the  blackguard, 
and  h(;  a  tenant  of  his  own?  Out  he  jumps  from  behind  a 
rock,  out  forninst  him,  and  catches  the  gun  out  of  his  hand. 


MATTHIAS   M'DONNELL    BODKIN.  245 

His  lordship  staggered  with  the  surprise,  and  troth  that 
was  the  luclvj  stagger  for  him,  for  the  wliole  contents  of 
the  gun  went  clean  througli  the  leaf  of  his  hat,  and  it  was 
the  blessing  of  God  it  didn't  blow  the  roof  of  the  head  off 
him.  Tlie  Lord  betune  us  and  harm,  young  Joyce  must 
have  thought  he  was  done  for  out  and  out,  for  he  cuts  away 
with  himself  across  the  mountain,  and  there  wasn't  his 
equal  to  run,  to  fight,  or,  for  that  matter,  work  either,  in 
the  whole  countryside.  But  his  lordship  gets  up  off  the 
ground,  I  thank  you,  and  walks  fair  and  easy  down  to  the 
police  barrack,  and  the  peelers  had  me  boyo  nabbed  before 
he  knew  where  he  was  at  cock-shout  in  the  morning.  I 
heerd  tell  his  colleen  took  on  in  a  terrible  way,  shouting 
and  screaming  that  her  boy  was  wronged  and  innocent; 
but  her  father  bid  her  hould  her  whist,  for  his  lordship  is 
master  over  them  all,  and  it  would  be  a  poor  look-out 
facing  the  winter  without  a  roof  over  their  heads.  Troth, 
they  say  that  his  lordship  has  a  hankering  after  the  girl 
this  while  back,  and  that 's  how  all  the  row  ruz.  But,  be 
that  as  it  may,  they  took  young  Joyce  before  the  magis- 
trate, and  be  all  account  it 's  tried  by  the  judge  he  '11  be  at 
the  next  'sizes  coming  on  in  Galway.' 

"  This  certainly  seemed  to  me  a  somewhat  distorted 
version  of  the  scene  I  had  witnessed  on  the  mountain,  but 
as  the  main  incident  was  accurate — a  peer  had  been  vio- 
lently assaulted  by  a  peasant — I  didn't  feel  called  upon  to 
interfere,  but  determined  with  myself  that  justice  must 
take  its  course. 

"  A  few  days  later,"  his  Excellency  continued,  "  I  my- 
self left  for  Dublin  to  make  arrangements  for  an  approach- 
ing levee.  On  the  occasion  of  my  departure  I  received  an 
enthusiastic  ovation  from  a  vast  crowd,  in  which  the  two 
waiters  and  the  ostler  of  the  hotel,  to  whom  I  gave  a 
sovereign  each,  were  included ;  and  the  fact  was  chronicled 
in  the  Dublin  papers  as  'an  additional  proof — if  proof  were 
wanted — of  my  benevolence  and  popularity.'  In  the  self- 
same papers  I  found  an  account  of  the  trial  and  committal 
of  young  JojTe  before  the  magistrates  for  shooting  at  Lord 
Leitrim  with  murderous  intent.  His  lordship's  account 
was  corroborated  by  his  Scotch  gamekeeper.  There  were 
no  witnesses  for  the  defense,  and  I  could  not  sufficiently 
admire   the  discretion  of  the  beautiful   peasant  girl   in 


240  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

wlioso  interest  and  presence  the  assault  had  been  com- 
mitted, in  retraining  from  obtruding  herself. 

"  But  the  preparations  for  the  approaching  levee  and 
drawing-room  soou  chased  all  thoughts  of  the  incident 
from  mv  memory.  The  drawing-room  was  on  a  scale  of 
unusual  maguiticence.  The  elite  of  Dublin  society,  the 
most  delicate  and  delicious  toadies  in  the  universe, 
crowded  the  reception-rooms.  I  derived  special  pleasure 
from  the  hope  of  meeting  once  again  my  old  Englisli 
friend,  the  rich,  benevolent,  and  eccentric  Dowager  Coun- 
tess of  D ,  who  had  written  to  me  a  few  days  previously 

for  permission  to  present  a  beautiful  young  cousin  and 
])r()1('(/cc — a  permission  which,  I  need  hardly  say,  I  most 
willingly  accorded.  We  had  been  in  Connemara  together, 
but  had  not  met,  and  her  ladyship  had  only  returned  to 
Dublin  w  itli  her  companion  a  day  or  two  before  the  draw- 
ing-room. The  eventful  evening  came,  an  evening  memo- 
rable to  me.  The  reception-room  with  its  rich  silk  panel- 
ing and  artistic  mouldings,  was  one  great  glow  of  color  and 
of  li"ht. 


'o' 


"  '  And  women  beautiful,  in  rich  array. 
In  mist  of  muslin  and  in  sheen  of  silk, 
And  blazing  jewels,  filled  the  spacious  hall.' 

"  For  myself,  I  took  my  stand,  with  Garter  on  knee  and 
Star  on  breast,  on  the  elevated  dais  in  the  throne-room, 
prepared  for  the  kissing  ordeal,  which  is  alternately  the 
privilege  and  penance  of  a  Viceroy.  I  was  exceptionally 
fortunate  on  that  occasion.  A  long  train  of  fresh  young 
beauties  filed  past  me,  and  I  tasted  the  sweets  of  pouting 
lips  and  blushing  cheeks — a  privilege  that  many  an  ardent 
young  lover  would  give  five  of  the  best  years  of  his  life  to 
attain.  But  good  luck  Avon't  last  for  ever.  Suddenly  the 
(h»ors  opened  on  a  gaunt  and  angular  s])inster  of  about 
forty,  dressed  in  the  very  perfection  of  bad  taste,  '  a  dis- 
cor(i  in  mauve  and  yellow.'  She  bore  rapidly  down  upon 
hk;  with  a  mincing  step  and  a  self-complacent  smile  of 
])ert  inanity.  False  hair,  and  powder,  and  paint  pro- 
claiiiicil  themselves  shamelessly  under  the  merciless  bril- 
liancy of  the  ta])ers.  ^\'ith  a  gii-lish  giggh^  of  affected  coy- 
ness she  pressed  her  wrinkled  old  lips  to  mine,  and  for  five 


MATTHIAS   M'DONNELL    BODKIX.  247 

minutes  afterwards  I  felt  the  distinct  taste  of  carmine  on 
my  mouth. 

"  But  oh  I  what  a  contrast  was  she  tliat  next  "lided 
slowly  and  gracefully  up  the  brilliant  avenue  of  light.  The 
lissom  figure  was  clad  in  pure  white,  and  never  did  the 
Avhite  marble  of  (Jreece  assume  more  graceful  form.  The 
fair  young  face,  framed  in  smooth  bands  of  jet  black  hair, 
seemed  very  pale.  There  was  a  deep  melancholy  in  the 
large  eyes  of  darkest  blue,  and  the  rich,  red,  rosebud  mouth 
was  depressed  at  the  corners  as  with  sad  rememl)rances. 
Shall  I  own  it?  my  heart  began  to  thump  and  jump 
strangely  as  she  entered  the  throne-room.  I  had  that 
startling  sensation  that  every  one  has  experienced,  that  the 
whole  scene  had  occurred  in  some  former  life  in  some  other 
world.  I  trembled  and  blushed  like  a  schoolboy  in  the 
ecstasy  of  first  love  as  I  pressed  her  rich  ripe  lips  to  mine. 
She  took  my  kiss  with  a  calm,  unconscious  indifference 
that  was  more  chilling  than  absolute  repugnance.  The 
dark  blue  eyes  just  flashed  one  earnest  look  upon  my  face 
as  she  swept  past  with  easy  grace.  I  have  little  recollec- 
tion of  anything  that  occurred  afterwards,  until  I  found  an 
opportunity  of  directing  my  chamberlain  to  discover  for 
me  the  name  of  the  beautiful  stranger,  and,  if  possible, 
secure  her  attendance  at  the  next  Viceregal  entertainment. 
To  my  delight,  he  soon  returned  with  the  information  that 
she  had  been  presented  by  my  old  friend,  the  Countess  of 
D ,  and  that  her  name  was  Miss  Kathleen  O'Meara. 

"  To  the  next  ball  they  were  bidden,  and  they  came.  I 
had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  an  introduction  from  the 
Countess,  who  seemed  strangely  amused  and  pleased  at  my 
eagerness. 

"  '  Let  the  all-accomplished  Lord  Carlisle  beware,'  she 
said.  '  Miss  O'Meara  is  a  dangerous  young  rebel,  and  will, 
I  fear,  be  merciless  in  the  hour  of  victory.' 

"  But  I  Vv-as  not  to  be  warned,  and  our  acquaintance, 
after  a  few  meetings,  ripened  into  intimacy.  There  was  a 
strange  mystery  about  the  young  girl  which  completed  the 
fascination  that  her  beauty  had  begun.  A  quick,  lively 
humor  flashed  out  occasionally  through  the  habitual  mel- 
ancholy of  her  manner.  She  had  read  little,  but  that  little 
she  had  read  to  good  purpose.  I  never  knew  a  truer  ap- 
preciation than  hers  of  the  beauties  of  literature.     I  was 


248  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

eousc-ioiis  of  a  deeper  ineaiiin<i;  iu  the  most  familiar  lines 
of  our  greater  poets,  as  they  tlowed  in  mellow  music  from 
her  lips.  She  sang,  too,  in  a  low,  rich  contralto,  disdaining 
all  instrumental  aeeomi)animent.  It  is  impossible  to  des- 
cribe the  unutterable  sadness  of  her  rendering  of  '  Savour- 
neen  Dheelish  Eileen  Oge,'  her  rich  voice  sinking  to  a  piti- 
ful moan  at  the  close.  Her  manner  towards  myself  as  our 
acquaintance  progressed  was  full  of  a  subtle  and  changing 
fascination.  Now  she  seemed  most  anxious  to  win  my  af- 
fection, watching  my  face  and  listening  to  my  words  with 
most  flattering  attention,  eager  to  anticipate  my  slightest 
wishes.  Then  there  would  be  a  short  spell  of  calm,  listless 
iuditference,  as  though  her  thoughts  were  far  away. 

*'  Now  and  again,  though  rarely,  a  gleam  of  humor  would 
leap,  laughing,  into  the  dark  blue  eyes  in  the  midst  of  one 
of  my  most  elaborate  compliments.  We  met  repeatedly. 
Sometimes  in  the  reception-rooms  of  the  Viceregal  Lodge, 
sometimes,  though  more  rarel}',  at  the  Bilton  Hotel,  where 
the  Countess  had  taken  up  her  temporar}-  residence.  My 
old  friend  certainly  acted  the  kindly  matron  to  perfection, 
and  seemed  strangely  amused  to  see  the  semi-Platonic  af- 
fection I  had  always  expressed  for  herself  gradually  merge 
into  a  warmer  feeling  for  her  young  protegee.  Somehow 
we  lapsed  into  correspondence,  I  cannot  remember  how; 
Miss  O'Meara's  letters  were  of  the  briefest;  but  they 
provoked  from  me  enthusiastic  and  eloquent  rejoinders 
couched  in  that  exquisite  delicacy  of  style  for  which,  as 
Mr.  Gaskin  truly  remarks  in  his  justly  popular  book,  to 
which  I  have  already  referred,  I  was  always  famous. 

"  At  length  my  ardor  reached  a  climax,  and  in  one 
fervent  letter,  addressed  to  '  My  soul's  idol,  the  most  beau- 
tiful ^liss  O'Meara,'  I  laid  my  rank  and  station  at  her  feet 
and  implored  her  acceptance  of  m^^  hand. 

"  Two  formal  lines  informed  me  that  Miss  O'Meara 
would  have  the  pleasure  of  giving  me  a  personal  reply  if  I 
honored  her  by  calling  next  day  at  'The  Bilton.'  It  was 
with  feelings  of  the  wildest  excitement  that  I  kept  this 
singular  appointment.  I,  the  Viceroy  of  Ireland,  the  all- 
admired  and  all-accomplished  Carlisle,  sat  on  the  edge  of 
a  chair  in  the  private  sitting-room  of  'The  Bilton,'  and 
fidgeted  with  my  hat  and  cane  and  gloves  like  a  bashful 


MATTHIAS   MCDONNELL   BODKIN,  249 

schoolboy  awaiting  the  coming  of  his  charnuT.  My  heart 
gave  om;  great  jump  and  then  stood  quite  still  as  I  heard 
a  light  quick  step  in  the  passage.  The  door  opened,  and, 
to  my  utter  astonishment,  there  entered — my  young  maiden 
of  the  mountain ! 

"  Yes,  there  she  was,  plaid  shawl,  red  petticoat  and  all, 
as  I  had  seen  her  on  the  brown  mountainside,  on  that 
memorable  evening  in  Maam.  Yet  not  for  one  moment 
did  1  doubt  that  she  was  Miss  Kathleen  O'Meara  as  well. 
She  paused  for  a  moment  at  the  door,  then  advanced  lightly 
and  noiselessly  towards  me,  her  white  naked  feet  sinking 
softly  in  the  thickness  of  the  rich  Turkey  carpet.  The  real 
woman  was  before  me  at  last,  honest,  earnest,  determined, 
and  ten  times  more  beautiful  than  I  had  ever  thought  her 
before.     In  a  passion  of  tears  she  threw  herself  at  my  feet. 

"'01  forgive  me,  my  lord,'  she  exclaimed ;  '  forgive  a 
poor  girl  who  has  dared  to  trifle  with  3^our  greatness ;  but 
what  will  not  a  true  girl  do  and  dare  for  her  lover's  sake? 
He  was  the  truest-hearted  and  the  bravest  that  ever  woman 
loved,  and  he  must  not  suffer  lifelong  imprisonment  be- 
cause he  dared  raise  his  hand  to  save  the  girl  who  was  to 
be  his  wife  from  the  insult  of  a  titled  villain.  They  swore 
foul  falsehoods  against  him,  my  lord.  Three  da^s  ago  he 
was  sentenced,  but  you  can  and  will  save  him.' 

"  In  the  utter  amazement  of  the  moment  I  murmured 
out  the  stereotyped  Viceregal  reply  to  unpopular  deputa- 
tions, '  There  is  a  geat  deal  of  force  and  justice  in  the 
arguments  you  have  so  ably  and  eloquently  advanced,  and 
I  promise  the  matter  shall  have  the  most  careful  considera- 
tion on  the  earliest  opportunity.' 

"  But  she  drowned  the  closing  words  with  another  burst 
of  passionate  entreaty.  '  You  can  save  him,  my  lord,'  she 
said,  '  and  you  must — ay,  must,  or  face  the  ridicule  of  the 
world  as  the  rejected  suitor  of  a  peasant  schoolmis- 
tress.' 

"  This  was  a  view  of  the  case  that  had  not  at  first  pre- 
sented itself,  but  I  saw  at  once  the  full  force  of  the  argu- 
ment, especially  as  a  gleam  of  malicious  mockery  played 
in  the  black  blue  eyes,  behind  the  fast-falling  tears,  like 
sunshine  through  shower.  I  have  always  loved  to  be  just 
and  merciful,  especially  when  no  other  alternative  sug- 
gested itself,  and  in  five  minutes  afterwards  she  obtained 


27)0  IRLSII    LITERATURE. 

a  i)i'omiso,  sijinod  and  sealed,  of  a  free  pardon  for  ]\[ark 
Jovte,  and  1  received  in  retnrn  my  own  elei;ant  epistles. 

"•  I  confess  it  was  with  something  of  a  pang  I  noticed 
how  carelessly  the  beautifnl  girl  handed  back  the  letters 
that  had  placed  a  Viceregal  coronet  and  my  all-accom- 
l)lished  self  at  her  disposal,  and  with  what  happy  eager- 
ness slie  thrnst  in  close  to  lier  heaving  bosom  the  scrap  of 
paper  that  promised  a  panlon  to  a  penniless  peasant.  A 
moment  more  a  faint  tap  was  heard  at  the  door,  followed 
by  an  ostentations  cough,  and  the  Countess  came  laughing 
into  the  room. 

''  *  I  must  interrupt  the  billing  and  cooing  of  the  young 
lovers,'  she  said,  mockingly.  '  But,'  she  quickly  added,  '  I 
must  not  be  too  hard  on  an  old  friend.  Forgive  me,  my 
lord,  for  having  betrayed  jou  into  an  act  of  clemency  and 
justice;  for  having  made  30U  the  instrument  to  defeat  a 
cruel  profligate,  and  to  secure  the  hapjnness  of  two  deserv- 
ing lovers.  From  my  soul  I  believe  Joyce  is  as  innocent 
as  I  am  of  the  crime  for  which  he  has  been  condemned.' 

''  '  I  kiiow  he  is,'  I  unguardedly  exclaimed,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment more  those  two  women  had  drawn  from  me  a  full  ac- 
count of  the  scene  on  the  mountain,  to  the  intense  deliglit 
of  Kathleen,  whose  own  truth  and  whose  lover's  innocence 
were  tlins  so  strangelj'  and  completely  vindicated  to  the 
Countess.  I  could  not,  however,  but  observe  that  I  had 
myself  sunk  several  degrees  in  the  estimation  of  both  the 
ladies,  for  not  having  previously  acted  on  my  personal 
knowledge  of  his  innocence. 

''  Their  ex]>]anation  of  the  trap  into  wliich  I  had  tumbled 
was  vei-y  brief.  Kathleen  had  seen  the  Counless  at  the 
?Jaam  Hotel.  Hearing  she  was  a  great  English  lady  and 
a  friend  of  mine,  she  told  her  story  with  tearful  eloquence, 
and  im])]ored  her  help.  The  kind  heart  of  the  elder  lady 
was  deeply  moved,  and  Kathleen's  singular  beauty  and 
talent  snggesteil  the  little  ])lot  of  which  1  was  the  victim. 

"The  i-est  of  lh(;  sfoi-y  is  soon  told.  I  i)ar<l<)ned  Joyce 
on  the  ground  of  insanity,  and  the  i)ardon  was  followed 
shortly  after  by  his  comi)lete  freedom.  The  benevolent 
Countess  assisted  the  grateful  cou])le  to  a  comfortal)le 
home  in  the  New  'NA'orld.  A  few  yeai-s  after  slu;  received 
a  check  for  the  full  iimount  of  her  advances,  which  she 


MATTHIAS    UrDONNELL    BODKIN.  251 

accepted  witli  reluctance,  and  a  brooch — a  shamrock,  ex- 
qnisitely  wr()ii.i;ht  in  emeralds,  which  she  loved  to  display 
upon  her  comely  bosom. 

"  Lord  Leitrim  never  forgave  me  for  thus  robbing  him 
of  the  victim  of  his  hate  and  the  victim  of  his  love.  At 
last  he  had  a  diabolical  revenge  when  he  made  the  landlord, 
Avho  was  his  tenant,  shut  me  out  this  desolate  evening  from 
dinner  and  bed  at  Maam,  and  compelled  me  to  drive,  cold 
and  hungry,  twelve  long  Irish  miles  to  Cong. 

"  But  out  of  evil  cometh  good,  and  to  Lord  Leitrim's 
inveterate  malignity  I  am  indebted  for  the  pleasantest 
evening  in  my  life.  But  for  him  I  would  be  this  moment 
sitting  alone  in  solemn  state  at  Maam  looking  out  at  a  wet 
mountain." 

Subdued  applause,  mixed  with  laughter,  greeted  Lord 
Carlisle's  story,  of  which  the  fine-spun  sentences  were 
somewhat  lost  on  the  audience,  but  the  humor  of  the  situa- 
tion was  thoroughly  appreciated. 


DION    BOUCICAULT. 

(1822—1890.) 

Dion  Boucicault,  a  prolific  and  successful  dramatist  and  play- 
wright, as  well  as  a  noted  actor,  was  born  in  Dublin,  Dec.  26,  1822. 
He  was  brought  up  under  the  guardianship  of  Dr.  Dionysius  Lard- 
ner,  and  his  real  name  was  Dionysius  Lardner  Boucicault.  His 
famous  play  of  '  London  Assurance  '  was  brought  out  at  Covent 
Garden  in  March,  1841.  An  immediate  success,  it  has  since  re- 
mained a  stock  piece  on  the  stage,  and  is  perhaps  the  best  of  all 
his  works. 

For  the  rest  of  his  life  !Mr.  Boucicault  was  constantly  before  the 
public,  either  as  author,  actor,  or  theatrical  manager,  and  frequently 
in  the  combined  cliaracter  of  the  three.  He  produced  upward  of 
fifty  pieces.  In  most  of  these  he  was  indebted  to  some  other  author 
for  his  story,  but  that  does  not  take  aAvay  from  him  the  merit  of 
having  used  his  materials  with  great  skill.  Most  of  his  works  area 
singular  mixture  of  merits  and  defects.  They  display,  unquestion- 
ably, wit,  skill  in  describing  character,  and  marvelous  ingenuity  in 
stage  effects.  On  the  other  hand,  the  writer  depended  for  a  great 
part  of  his  success  on  the  aid  of  the  stage  carpenter,  and  his  plays, 
when  they  come  to  be  read,  appear  very  poor  in  comparison  with 
the  impression  they  produce  on  the  stage. 

Among  his  chief  pieces  may  be  mentioned  '  London  Assurance,' 
'The  Colleen  Bawn,'  'The  Octoroon,'  'Old  Heads  and  Young 
Hearts,'  'Janet  Pride,'  'The  Corsican  Brothers,'  'Louis  XL,' 
'TheShaughraun,'  'The  Jilt,'  '  The  Streets  of  London,'  '  The  Fly- 
ing Scud,'  'After  Dark.'  He  also  dramatized  Irving's  '  Rip  Van 
Winkle,' and  Jo.seph  Jefferson  enlarged  this  version  for  his  own  use. 
In  1876  Mr.  Boucicault  settled  in  New  York,  occasionally  visiting 
England,  where  he  brought  out  several  pieces,  some  of  which  ap- 
peared on  the  London  stage.     He  died  in  New  York  in  1890. 


LADY  GAY  SPANKER. 

From  'London  Assurance.' 
ACT  HI. 

Scene  1 . — A  morning-room  in  Oak  Hall,  French  windows 
opening  to  the  lawn.  Max  and  Sir  Hakcoukt  seated  on 
one  side,  Dazzle  on  the  other  ;  Grace  and  Young  Courtly 
playing  chess  at  back.     All  dressed  for  dinner. 

Enter  L.vdy  Gay,  l.,  fully  equipped  in  riding  hahit,  &c. 

Lfidij  (In]).     Hal  ha  I  Woll,  governor,  how  are  ye?     I 

252 


iri.*^.*  . 


TJUADDUOa   '/lOKl 


DION  BOUCICAULT 

From  a  photograph 
In  the  character  of  "  Daddy  O'Dowd  "  in  his  play  of 


that  name. 


DION    BOUCICAULT.  253 

have  been  down  five  times,  clinibinj;'  up  your  stairs  in  my 
long  clothes.  How  are  you,  Grace,  dear?  (Kisses  her.) 
There,  don't  fidget,  Max.  And  there — (kisses  him)  there  's 
one  for  you. 

Sir  Harcoint.  Ahem! 

Ladi/  Gay.  Oh,  gracious,  1  didn't  see  you  had  visitors. 

Max.  Permit  me  to  introduce — Sir  Harcourt  Courtly, 
Lady  Gay  Spanker.  Mr.  Dazzle,  Mr.  Hamilton — Lady 
Gay  Spanker. 

Sir  Harcourt.   (Aside.)   A  devilish  fine  woman ! 

Dazzle.   (Aside  to  Sir  H.)    She  's  a  devilish  fine  woman. 

Lady  Gay.  You  mustn't  think  anything  of  the  liberties 
I  take  with  my  old  papa  here — bless  him ! 

Sir  Harcourt.  Oh,  no!  (Aside.)  I  only  thought  I  should 
like  to  be  in  his  place. 

Lady  Gay.  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.  Sir  Harcourt. 
Now  we  shall  be  able  to  make  a  decent  figure  at  the  heels 
of  a  hunt. 

Sir  Harcourt.  Does  your  Ladyship  hunt? 

Lady  Gay.  Ha!  I  say,  Governor,  does  my  Ladyship 
hunt?  I  rather  flatter  myself  that  I  do  hunt!  Why,  Sir 
Harcourt,  one  might  as  well  live  without  laughing  as  with- 
out hunting.  Man  was  fashioned  expressly  to  fit  a  horse. 
Are  not  hedges  and  ditches  created  for  leaps?  Of  course! 
And  I  look  upon  foxes  to  be  one  of  the  most  blessed  dis- 
pensations of  a  benign  Providence. 

Sir  Harcourt.  Yes,  it  is  all  very  well  in  the  abstract:  I 
tried  it  once. 

Lady  Gay.  Once!    Only  once? 

Sir  Harcourt.  Once,  only  once.  And  then  the  animal 
ran  away  with  me. 

Lady  Gay.  Why,  you  would  not  have  him  walk? 

Sir  Harcourt.  Finding  my  society  disagreeable,  he  in- 
stituted a  series  of  kicks,  with  a  view  to  removing  the  an- 
noyance; but  aided  by  the  united  stays  of  the  mane  and 
tail,  I  frustrated  his  intentions.  (All  laugh.)  His  next 
resource,  however,  was  more  effectual,  for  he  succeeded  in 
rubbing  me  off  against  a  tree. 

Max  and  Lady  Gay.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Dazzle.  How  absurd  you  must  have  looked  with  your 
legs  and  arms  in  the  air,  like  a  shipwrecked  tea-table. 

Sir  Harcourt.  Sir,  I  never  looked  absurd  in  my  life. 


)i:a  irl^h  literature. 

Ah,  it  may  be  very  amusing  in  relation,  I  dare  say,  but 
vi'iy  uiii)leasant  in  ettect. 

Lady  (iai/.  I  pity  you,  Sir  llarcourt;  it  was  criminal  in 
your  parents  to  neiileet  your  education  so  shamefully. 

N/r  Hurcourt.  Possibly;  but  be  assured,  I  shall  never 
break  my  neek  awkwardly  from  a  horse,  Avhen  it  might  be 
aeeomplislied  with  less  trouble  from  a  bedroom  window. 

Yoinuj  Court] I/.  (Aside.)  My  dad  will  be  caught  by  this 
she  Bucephalus-tamer. 

Maa\  Ah !  Sir  llarcourt,  had  you  been  here  a  month 
ago,  you  would  have  witnessed  the  most  glorious  run  that 
ever  swept  over  merry  Iiingland's  green  cheek — a  steeple- 
chase, sir,  which  I  intended  to  win,  but  my  horse  broke 
down  the  day  before.  I  had  a  chance,  notwithstanding, 
and  l)ut  for  (Jay  here  I  should  have  won.  How  I  regret- 
ted mv  absence  from  it!  How  did  my  filly  behave  herself, 
Gav  ?' 

JAidj/  Gay.  Gloriously,  Max !  gloriously !  There  were 
sixtv  horses  in  the  field,  all  mettle  to  the  bone:  the  start 
was  a  picture — away  we  went  in  a  cloud — pell-mell — hel- 
ter-skelter— the  fools  first,  as  usual,  using  themselves  up — 
we  soon  passed  them — first  3'our  Kitty,  then  my  Blueskin, 
and  Craven's  Colt  last.  Then  came  the  tug — Kitty  skimmed 
the  walls — Blueskin  flew  over  the  fences — the  Colt  neck- 
and-neck,  and  half  a  mile  to  run — at  last  the  Colt  baulked 
a  lea]»  and  went  wild.  Kitty  and  I  had  it  all  to  ourselves 
— she  was  three  lengths  ahead  as  we  breasted  the  last  wall, 
six  feet,  if  an  inch,  and  a  ditch  on  the  other  side.  Now,  for 
the  first  time,  I  gave  Blueskin  his  head — ha!  ha!  Away, 
he  flew  like  a  thunderbolt — over  went  the  filly — I  over  the 
same  spot,  leaving  Kitty  in  the  ditch — walked  the  steeple, 
eiirht  miles  in  thirty  minutes,  and  scarcely  turned  a  hair. 

.1//.   B.ravo!     Bravo! 

Ij<iiiy  <i<ty.  Do  you  hunt? 

Dazzle.  Hunt!  I  belong  to  a  hunting  family.  I  was 
born  on  horseback  and  cradled  in  a  kennel!  Ay,  and  I 
hope  1  may  die  with  a  whoo-whoop! 

Mn.r.  (To  Hir  Harroiirt.)  You  must  leave  your  town 
iial)its  in  the  smoke  of  London:  here  N\-e  rise  with  tiie  lark. 

»S'/r  //(irconrt.  Haven't  the  remotest  conception  when 
that  ])eriod  is. 


D/OA     liOUCICAULT.  255 

Grace.  The  man  that  misses  sunrise  loses  the  sweetest 
part  of  his  existence, 

Hir  Hurconrt.  Oh,  pardon  nie;  I  have  seen  sunrise  fre- 
quently after  a  ball,  or  from  the  windows  of  mj  traveling 
carriage,  and  1  ahva^^s  considered  it  disagreeable. 

Grace.  I  love  to  watch  the  first  tear  that  glistens  in  the 
opening  eve  of  morning,  the  silent  song  the  flowers  breathe, 
the  thrilling  choir  of  the  woodland  minstrels,  to  which  the 
modest  brook  trickles  applause: — these,  swelling  out  the 
sweetest  chord  of  sweet  creation's  matins,  seem  to  pour 
some  soft  and  merry  tale  into  the  daylight's  ear,  as  if  the 
waking  world  had  dreamed  a  happy  thing,  and  now  smiled 
o'er  the  telling  of  it. 

^ir  Harcourt.  The  effect  of  a  rustic  education  I  Who 
could  ever  discover  music  in  a  damp  foggy  morning,  except 
those  confounded  waits,  who  never  play  in  tune,  and  a 
miserable  wretch  who  makes  a  point  of  cr^Mng  coffee  under 
my  window  just  as  I  am  persuading  myself  to  sleep?  In 
fact,  I  never  heard  any  music  worth  listening  to,  except  in 
Italy. 

Lady  Gay.  No  ?  then  you  never  heard  a  well-trained 
English  pack  in  full  cry  ? 

Hir  Harcourt.  Full  cry! 

Lady  Gay.  Ay  I  there  is  harmony,  if  you  will.  Give  me 
the  trumpet-neigh ;  the  spotted  pack  just  catching  scent. 
What  a  chorus  is  their  yelp  I  The  view-hallo,  blent  with 
a  peal  of  free  and  fearless  mirth !  That 's  our  old  English 
music, — match  it  where  you  can. 

*S'ir  Harcourt.  (Aside.)  I  must  see  about  Lady  Gay 
Spanker. 

Dazzle.    (Aside  to  Sir  Harcourt.)   Ah,  would  you — 

Lady  Gay.  Time  then  appears  as  young  as  love,  and 
plumes  as  swift  a  wing.  Away  we  go!  The  earth  flies 
back  to  aid  our  course!  Horse,  man,  hound,  earth,  hea- 
ven!— all — all — one  piece  of  glowing  ecstasy!  Then  I 
love  the  world,  myself,  and  every  living  thing, — my  jocund 
soul  cries  out  for  very  glee,  as  it  could  wish  that  all  crea- 
tion had  but  one  mouth,  that  I  might  kiss  it ! 

Sir  Harcourt.   (Aside.)   I  wish  I  were  the  mouth! 

Maa-.  Why,  we  will  regenerate  you.  Baronet!  But  Gay, 
where  is  your  husband  ? — Where  is  Adolphus ! 

Lady  Gay.  Bless  me,  where  is  my  Dolly  ? 


256  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

»s'/y  Ilarcourt.  You  are  iiuirried,  then? 

Ladi/  iiiuj.  I  have  a  hiisbaud  somewhere,  though  I  can't 
find  him  just  now.  Dolly,  dear  I  {Aside  to  Max.)  Gover- 
nor, at  home  I  always  whistle  when  I  want  him. 


Enter  Spanker 


^^/xmlvr.  Here  I  am, — did  you  call  me,  Gay? 

ISir  Hurcourt.    (IJi/vinfj  Jiiin.)    Is  that  your  husband? 

Ladi/  Gay.  (Aside.)  Yes,  bless  his  stupid  face,  that's 
mv  Dollv. 

Ma,i'.  Termit  me  to  introduce  jou  to  Sir  Harcourt 
Courtly. 

ISpaitker.  How  d'  ye  do?    I — ah  I — um  ! 

(Appears  frightened.) 

Ladji  Gay.  Delighted  to  have  the  honor  of  making  the 
acquaintance  of  a  gentleman  so  highl}^  celebrated  in  the 
world  of  fashion. 

Spanker.  Oh,  yes,  delighted,  I  'm  sure — quite — very,  so 
delighted — delighted  I 

(Gets  quite  confused,  draws  on  Itis  glove,  and  tears  it.) 

Lady  Gay.  Where  have  you  been,  Dolly  ? 

Spa)iker.  Oh,  ah,  I  was  just  outside. 

2Iajc.  Whv  did  vou  not  come  in? 

i^panl-rr.  I  'm  sure  I  didn't — I  don't  exactly  know,  but  I 
thought  as — perhaps — I  can't  remember. 

Dazzle.  Shall  we  have  the  pleasure  of  3^our  comj)auy  to 
dinner  ? 

Spanker.  I  always  dine — usually — that  is,  unless  Gay 
remains 

Lady  Gay.  Stay  to  dinner,  of  course;  we  came  on  pur- 
pose to  stop  three  or  four  days  with  you. 

Grace.  Will  j^ou  excuse  my  absence.  Gay  ? 

Max.  ^Vhat  I  \\hat  I  Where  are  you  going  ?  What  takes 
you  away! 

Grace.  We  must  postpone  the  dinner  till  Gay  is  dressed. 

Max.  Oh,  never  mind — stay  where  you  are. 

Grace.  No,  I  must  go. 

Max.  I  say  you  sha'n't!  I  will  be  king  in  my  own 
liouse. 

(/race.  Do,  my  dear  uncle; — you  shall  be  king,  and  I  '11 
be  your  prime  minister, — that  is,  I  '11  rule,  and  you  shall 
have  the  honor  of  taking  the  consequences.         (Exit,  L.) 


D/OA^    BOUCICAULT.  257 

Lady  Gay.  Well  said,  (Jrace;  have  your  own  way;  it  is 
the  only  thing  we  women  ought  to  be  allowed. 

Max.  Come,  Gay,  dress  for  dinner. 

Sir  Ear  court.  Permit  me,  Lady  Gay  Spanker. 

Lady  Gay.  With  pleasure, — what  do  you  want? 

Sir  Ear  court.  To  escort  you. 

Lady  Gay.  Oh,  never  mind,  I  can  escort  myself,  thank 
you,  and  Dolly  too; — come,  dear!  {Exit,  R.) 


SONG. 


[The  following  is  supposed  to  be  sung  by  a  young  woman,  an 
exile,  whose  baby  had  died  in  her  old  home.] 

I  'm  very  happy  where  I  am. 

Far  across  the  say — 
I  'm  very  happy  far  from  home, 

In  North  Amerikay. 

It 's  lonely  in  the  night  when  Pat 

Is  sleepinc:  by  my  side. 
I  lie  awake,  and  no  one  knows 

The  big  tears  that  I  've  cried. 

For  a  little  voice  still  calls  me  back 

To  my  far,  far  couuthrie, 
And  nobody  can  hear  it  spake — 

Oh !  nobody  but  me. 

There  is  a  little  spot  of  ground 

Behind  the  chapel  wall; 
It 's  nothing  but  a  tiny  mound, 

Without  a  stone  at  all; 

It  rises  like  my  heart  just  now. 

It  makes  a  dawny  hill ; 
It 's  from  below  the  voice  comes  out, 

I  cannot  kape  it  still. 

Oh !  little  Voice,  ye  call  me  back 

To  my  far,  far  counthrie. 
And  noltody  can  hear  yc  spake — 

Oh  I  nobody  but  me. 


THOMAS    BOYD. 

(18G7 ) 

TnoMAS  Boyd  was  bom  about  1867  in  County  Louth.  He  is  a  poet 
Df  much  power  and  promise,  as  well  as  an  active  journalist.  His 
poem  *  To  the  Leanau  Sidhe'  is  eminently  Celtic  in  chai'acter.  He  has 
been  au  occasional  contributor  to  United  Ireland  and  other  papers, 

TO    THE    LEANAN    SlDHE.i 

Where  is  thy  lovely  perilous  abode? 

In  what  strange  jihautom-land 
Glimmer  the  fairy  turrets  whereto  rode 

The  ill-starred  poet  band? 

Say,  in  the  Isle  of  Youth  hast  thou  thy  home, 

The  sweetest  singer  there, 
Stealing  on  winged  steed  across  the  foam 

Through  the  moonlit  air? 

Or,  where  the  mists  of  bluebell  float  beneath 

The  red  stems  of  the  pine. 
And  sunbeams  strike  thro'  shadow,  dost  thou  breathe 

The  word  that  makes  him  thine? 

Or  by  the  gloomy  peaks  of  Erigal, 

Haunted  by  storm  and  cloud, 
\ying  past,  and  to  thy  lover  there  let  fall 

His  singing-robe  and  shroud? 

Or  is  thy  palace  entered  thro'  some  cliff 

When  radiant  tides  are  full. 
And  round  thy  lover's  wandering,  starlit  skiff, 

Coil  in  luxurious  lull? 

And  would  he,  entering  on  the  brimming  flood, 

See  caverns  vast  in  lieight, 
And  diamond  columns,  crowned  with  leaf  and  bud, 

Glow  in  long  lanes  of  light. 

And  there,  the  pearl  of  that  great  glittering  shell 

Trembling,  behold  thee  lone, 
Now  weaving  in  slow  dance  an  awful  spell, 

Now  still  upon  thy  throne? 

Leandn  Sidhe  (I^naicn  Shoe),  '  The  Fairy  Bride.* 


THOMAS   BOYD.  259 

Thy  beauty!  ah,  the  eyes  that  pierce  him  thro' 

Then  melt  as  in  a  dream; 
The  voice  that  sings  tlie  mysteries  of  tlie  blue 

And  all  that  l>e  and  Seem! 

Thy  lovely  motions  answering  to  the  rhyme 

That  ancient  Nature  sings, 
That  keeps  the  stars  in  cadence  for  all  time, 

And  echoes  thro'  all  things! 

Whether  he  sees  thee  thus,  or  in  his  dreams, 

Thy  light  makes  all  lights  dim; 
An  aching  solitude  from  henceforth  seems 

The  world  of  men  to  him. 

Thy  luring  song,  above  the  sensuous  roar, 

He  follows  wuth  delight. 
Shutting  behind  him  Life's  last  gloomy  door, 

And  fares  into  the  Night. 


JOIIX  BOYLE,  EARL  OF  CORK. 

(1707—1762.) 

John  Boyle,  Earl  of  Cork  and  Orrery,  was  the  only  son  of  Charles 
Boyle,  Earl  of  Orrery,  and  Avas  born  Jan  2,  1707.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-one  he  married  Lady  Harriet  Hamilton,  a  daughter  of  the 
Earl  of  Orkney. 

In  1732  Boyle  took  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Peers,  where  he  dis- 
tinguished himself  b}'  his  opposition  to  Walpole. 

In  1738  he  went  to  live  in  a  house  in  Duke  Sti'eet,  Westminster, 
and  in  June  of  the  same  year  he  married  Margaret  Hamilton,  an 
Irish  lady,  "  in  whom  the  loss  of  his  former  countess  was  repaired." 
In  1(39  he  produced  his  edition  of  Roger  Boyle's  dramatic  works  in 
two  volumes,  8vo,  and  in  1742  his  '  State  Letters.'  In  1746  he 
went  to  reside  Avith  his  father-in-laAv  at  Caledon  in  Ireland,  and 
there  passed  four  happy  years.  In  1751  appeared  his  translation  of 
Pliny's  '  Letters,'  with  observations  on  each  Letter  and  an  essay  on 
Pliny's  life.  This  ran  through  several  editions  in  a  few  years.  Its 
success,  no  doubt,  caused  him  to  hurry  the  preparatioxa  of  his  '  Re- 
marks on  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Swift,'  which  was  also  very  suc- 
cessful, though  not  his  best  work  from  a  literary  point  of  view.  In 
December,  1753,  lie  succeeded  to  the  title  of  Earl  of  Cork. 

In  addition  to  the  works  ah-eady  mentioned  Boyle  wrote  '  Letters 
from  Italy,'  which  Avere  published  in  1774,  and  '  Memoirs  of  Robert 
Carj^  Earl  of  Monmouth,'  1759.  He  also  contributed  several  papers 
to  The  World  and  TliC  Connoisseur.  His  translation  of  Pliny  is  not 
Avithout  merit,  and  his  history  of  Tuscany,  had  he  lived  to  finish 
it  as  begun,  Avould  liaA^e  given  him  legitimate  claim  to  a  fair  posi- 
tion among  successful  historians.  His  contributions  to  The  World 
and  The  Connoisseur  are  read  by  those  who  still  cling  to  that  class  of 
literature,  and  some  of  them  are  not  without  humor  of  a  kind 
which  no  doubt  Avas  approved  of  in  their  time. 

SWIFT   AS   A   PAMPHLETEER. 

From '  Remarks  on  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Doctor  Jonathan  Swift.' 

In  the  year  1720,  he  began  to  reassume,  in  some  dej^jree, 
tlie  cliaracter  of  a  political  writer.  A  small  pamphlet  in 
defense  of  the  Irish  uianufactiii-ers,  was,  I  believe,  his  first 
es.say  (in  Ji-chmdj  in  that  kind  <jf  writini!::  and  it  was  to 
that  j)anip]ih't  he  owed  the  turn  of  the  pojiular  tide  in  his 
favor.  IJis  sayinj^s  of  wit  and  humor  had  been  handed 
about,  and  repeated  from  time  to  time  amonj^  the  people. 
They  hiid  the  effect  of  an  artful  preface,  and  liad  pre-en- 

260 


JOHN    BOYLE,    EARL    OF    CORK.  261 

gaged  all  readers  in  his  favor.  Thcv  were  adapted  to  the 
uuderstanding;  aud  pleased  the  iiiiagiuation  of  the  vulvar: 
and  he  was  now  looked  upon  in  a  new  light,  and  distin- 
guished by  the  title  of  "  The  Dean." 

The  llux  and  reflux  of  popular  love  and  hatred  was 
equally  violent.  They  are  often  owing  to  the  accidents, 
but  sometimes  to  the  return  of  reason,  whicli,  unassisted 
by  education,  may  not  be  able  to  guide  the  lower  class  of 
people  into  the  right  track  at  the  beginning,  but  will  be 
sufficient  to  keep  them  in  it,  when  experience  has  pointed 
out  the  road.  The  pamphlet,  proposing  the  universal  use 
of  Irish  manufactures  within  the  kingdom,  had  captivated 
all  hearts.  Some  little  pieces  of  poetry  to  the  same  pur- 
pose were  no  less  acceptable  and  engaging.  The  attach- 
ment Avhich  the  Dean  bore  to  the  true  interest  of  Ireland 
was  no  longer  doubted.  His  patriotism  was  as  manifest 
as  his  wit.  He  was  looked  upon  with  pleasure  and  respect, 
as  he  passed  through  the  streets:  and  he  had  attained  so 
high  a  degree  of  popularity,  as  to  become  the  arbitrator 
in  the  disputes  of  property  among  his  neighbors:  nor  did 
any  man  dare  to  appeal  from  his  opinion,  or  to  murmur  at 
his  decrees. 

But  the  popular  affection,  which  the  Dean  had  hitherto 
acquired,  may  be  said  not  to  have  been  universal,  till  the 
publication  of  the  '  Drapier's  Letters,'  which  made  all 
ranks  and  all  professions  unanimous  in  his  applause.  The 
occasion  of  those  letters  was  a  scarcity  of  copper  coin  in 
Ireland,  and  to  so  great  a  degree  that  for  some  time  past 
the  chief  manufacturers  throughout  the  kingdom  were 
obliged  to  pay  their  workmen  in  pieces  of  tin,  or  in  other 
tokens  of  supposititious  value.  Such  a  method  was  very 
disadvantageous  to  the  lower  parts  of  traffic,  and  was  in 
general  an  impediment  to  the  commerce  of  the  state.  To 
remedy  this  evil,  the  late  King  granted  a  patent  to  William 
Wood,  to  coin,  during  the  terra  of  fourteen  years,  far- 
things and  halfpence  in  England  for  the  use  of  Ireland, 
to  the  value  of  a  certain  sum  specified.  These  halfpence  and 
farthings  were  to  be  received  by  those  persons  who  would 
voluntarily  accept  them.  But  the  patent  was  thought  to 
be  of  such  dangerous  consequence  to  the  public,  and  of 
such  exorbitant  advantage  to  the  patentee,  that  the  Dean, 
under  the  character  of  M.  B.  Drapier,  wrote  a  letter  to  the 


202  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

l>iHipk',  warnin<2;  them  not  to  accept  Wood's  halfpence  and 
fai  thiujis  as  current  coin.  This  lirst  letter  was  succeeded 
bv  several  others  to  the  same  purpose,  all  which  are  in- 
serted in  his  works. 

At  the  sound  of  the  Drapier's  trumpet,  a  spirit  arose 
among-  the  people,  that,  in  the  Eastern  phrase,  was  like 
unto  a  tempest  in  the  day  of  the  whirlwind.  Every  per- 
son of  rank,  party,  and  denomination,  was  convinced  that 
tlie  admission  of  Wood's  copper  must  prove  fatal  to  the 
commonwealth.  The  Papist,  the  Fanatic,  the  Tory,  the 
^^'lli,^•,  all  listed  themselves  volunteers  under  the  banner  of 
M.  B.  Drapier,  and  were  all  equally  zealous  to  serve  the 
common  cause.  ^luch  heat,  and  many  fiery  speeches 
against  the  administration,  were  the  consequence  of  this 
union:  nor  had  the  flames  been  allayed,  notwithstanding 
threats  and  proclamations,  had  not  the  coin  been  totally 
suppressed,  and  had  not  Wood  withdrawn  his  patent. 

This  is  the  most  succinct  account  that  can  be  given  of 
an  afi'air  which  alarmed  the  whole  Irish  nation  to  a  de- 
gree tliat  in  a  less  loyal  kingdom  must  have  fomented  a  re- 
bellion: but  the  steadfast  loyalty  of  the  Irish  and  their 
true  devotion  to  the  present  royal  family  is  immoveable: 
and,  although  this  unfortunate  nation  may  not  hitherto 
have  found  many  distinguishing  marks  of  favor  and  in- 
dulgence from  the  throne,  yet  it  is  to  be  hoped  in  time  they 
may  meet  with  their  reward. 

The  name  of  Augustus  was  not  bestowed  upon  Octavius 
C.Tsar  with  more  universal  approbation,  than  the  name 
of  The  Di-aj)ier  was  bestowed  upon  The  Dean.  He  had 
no  sooner  assume<l  his  new  cognomen,  than  he  became  the 
idol  of  the  ])eople  of  Ireland  to  a  degree  of  devotion,  that 
in  the  most  sujx'rstitious  country  scarce  any  idol  ever  ob- 
tained. Libations  to  his  health,  or,  in  plain  English, 
bumpers,  were  poured  forth  to  the  Drapier  as  large  and  as 
fre(juent,  as  to  the  glorious  and  immortal  memory  of  King 
A\'illiam  the  Third.  Ilis  elTllgies  were  painted  in  every 
street  in  Dublin.  Acelamations  and  vows  for  his  prosper- 
ity fitf ended  his  footste])s  v/herever  he  passed.  He  was  con- 
sulted in  all  points  rehiling  to  domestic  policy  in  general, 
and  to  the  trade  of  Ireland  in  particular:  but  he  was  more 
immediately  looked  ujxm  as  the  legislator  of  the  Weavers, 
who  fretjuently  came  in  a  body,  consisting  of  fifty  or  sixty 


i 


JOHN    BOYLE,    EARL    OF    CORK.  20:^ 

chieftains  of  llieir  trade,  to  i-eceivc  liis  advice,  in  Kettlini; 
the  rates  of  their  manufactures  and  tlie  wa^es  of  their 
journejnien.  He  received  their  a(hlresses  "Nvith  less  ma- 
jesty than  sternness;  and  ran«2,in<j^  his  subjects  in  a  circle 
round  his  parlor,  spoke  as  copiously  and  with  as  little  diffi- 
cuitv  and  hesitation,  to  the  several  lioints  in  which  thev 
supplicated  his  assistance,  as  if  trade  had  been  the  only 
study  and  employment  of  his  life.  When  elections  were 
depending  for  the  city  of  Dublin,  many  corporations  re- 
fused to  declare  themselves,  till  they  had  consulted  his 
sentiments  and  inclinations,  which  were  punctually  fol- 
lowed with  ecpial  cheerfulness  and  submission.  In  this 
state  of  power,  and  popular  love  and  admiration,  he  re- 
mained till  he  lost  his  senses:  a  loss  which  he  seemed  to 
foresee,  and  prophetically  lamented  to  many  of  his  friends. 


WILLIAM   BOYLE. 

(1853 ) 

AViLUAJi  Boyle,  one  of  the  brightest  and  raciest  of  modern  Irish 
authors,  was  born  in  1853  at  Dromiskin,  County  Louth.  He  was 
educated  at  St.  ^Mary's  College,  Dundalk,  and  entered  the  Inland 
Revenue  branch  of  the  Civil  Service  soon  after  1870.  He  has  been 
brought  nnich  into  contact  with  the  peasantry  of  his  own  country, 
and  that  ho  knows  them  in  many  aspects  the  '  Kish  of  Brogues' 
abundantly  ti'stifies.  He  has  written  stories  and  verses  for  the 
magazines  and  newspapers. 

THE  COW  CHARMER. 

From  '  A  Kish  of  Brogues.' 

"  Oeh  I  she  's  bravely,  Mickel — bravely,  if  the  Lord  spares 
her,"-Larr3^  Ilanlon  answered  to  his  frieud,  ^Michael  Duffy, 
as  the  latter  volunteered  assistance  to  drive  the  new  pur- 
chase up  the  lane  home  from  the  fair  of  Crossmaglen. 

''Troth,  she  is! — a  fine  fi«;nre  of  a  cow  all  out;  an'  as 
3'ou  say,  sure,  if  she  's  lucky,  Larry,  it 's  everythin'." 

"  That 's  it,  avick !  "  Larry  continued,  in  the  mildly  de- 
precatory tone  of  a  man  who  considered  he  had  got  a  safe 
luiruain.  "  Bhe  '11  give  us  a  dhrop  o'  milk,  plaze  God,  till 
tmv  own  comos  ronn',  an'  thin,  maybe,  we  could  put  a  bit 
o'  beef  on  her  bones  and  send  her  across  to  England." 

"  She  's  a  mouutaiuy,"  ^Michael  critically  observed,  turn- 
ing his  head  on  one  side  the  better  to  observe  the  animal. 
"  She  '11  be  hard  to  fatten." 

"Well,  sh<i  is — she  is,"  Larry  acquiesced  slowly;  "but 
she's])ig,  Mick  el." 

This  assertion  Michael  saw  no  reason  to  dispute,  and — 
fo  change  the  subject  from  the  personal  characteristics  of 
the  cow,  which  he  rather  feared  to  discuss  in  the  presence 
of  .Mrs.  Ilanlon,  the  purchaser's  wife,  who  was  approach- 
ing them  from  her  own  door — he  asked  his  friend  where  he 
meant  to  j)ut  the  aiiimnl. 

"  By  gob  :  I  never  thought  where  I  'd  put  her  at  all,  at  all. 
Tliere  's  not  a  taste  o'  room  in  the  cowshed  wid  the  rest  o' 
the  cattle,  an'   I  can't  keep  her  out  these  frosty  nights 

264 


WILLIAM    BOYLE.  265 

that 's  corain'  on.  But  here  's  Biddy,  an'  1  '11  back  her  for 
some  scheme  or  another." 

Biddy  was  Larry's  better  half;  indeed,  she  might,  with- 
out any  great  stretch  of  imagination,  be  called  his 
three-qnarlcrs.  She  was  a  tall,  raw-ljoned  woman,  of  a 
remarkably  ycHow'  complexion,  and  addicted  to  much 
declamation.  Still,  as  her  husband  used  to  say — and  who 
had  a  better  right  to  know? — her  bark  was  worse  than  her 
bite.  This  was  fortunate,  for  her  bark  was  very  bad  indeed. 
She  had,  however,  one  chink  in  her  armor — an  aversion  to 
going  to  either  fair  or  nmrket;  and  Ilanlon  took  advantage 
of  this  little  weakness  to  hold  his  own  pretty  Avell  on  tli(; 
question  of  sales  and  purchases.  I  dare  say  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  had  some  particle  of  cowardice  somewhere  in 
him,  which  some  of  his  subordinates  discovered  to  tlieir 
own  advantage.  Larry's  wife  was  the  iron  warrior  of  her 
domestic  circle. 

Still,  Mrs.  Hanlon  reserved  to  herself  the  right  of  criti- 
cising any  purchased  article  or  animal,  although  she 
rarely  cavilled  at  the  price.  It  was,  therefore,  not  with- 
out a  little  trepidation  that  Larr}^  w^aited  for  his  wife's 
opinion  on  the  cow.  His  friend  stood  hj  in  silence. 
Michael  was  a  very  good  man,  but  he  was  one  of  that 
numerous  class — to  which  the  present  writer  confesses  he 
himself  belongs — who  are  bravest  at  a  reasonable  distance 
from  the  scene  of  action.  Michael  praised  the  cow  immod- 
erately coming  up  the  lane,  but  he  was  no  such  fool  as  to 
unmask  his  forces  to  the  sweeping  artillery  of  Mrs.  Biddy, 
till  he  knew  in  Avhat  direction  these  same  guns  were 
pointed. 

"  She  's  a  good  figure  of  a  cow,"  Mrs.  Hanlon  murmured, 
walking  all  round  the  animal;  "  an'  quiet,  too,"  she  added, 
scratching  her  between  the  horns. 

"Wasn't  thim  my  very  words?"  ^Michael  gleefully 
appealed  to  Hanlon.  "  '  That 's  just  Biddy's  cut  of  a  cow,* 
says  I — '  a  fine  figure,  wid  plenty  o'  bone  an'  horn,  an'  no 
nonsense  about  her.'  Didn't  I?  " 

"  'Deed  ye  did  that,"  Larry  responded.  "  But  where '11 
we  put  her,  Biddy?  "  he  went  on.  "  The  other  cattle  id 
make  sthrange  wid  her,  even  if  there  was  room  among 
thim." 

"Agh!''  Biddy  answered  in  disgust,  throwing  out  one 


26G  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

nriu  like  a  railway  signal.  "  Min  have  no  more  heads  on 
tliiiii  nor  a  bunch  o'  sally  wattles!  Come  along!  We'll 
pill  lu'r  in  the  eastle,  to  be  sure." 

"  The  Lord  betune  us  an'  harm,  Biddy,  no!''  Larry  ex- 
claimed, in  utter  astonishment,  forgetting  that  his  wife's 
decrees  were  more  immutable  than  the  proverbial  legisla- 
tion of  the  Medes  and  the  Persians. 

"  Why  not?  "  Biddy  demanded,  stopping  short;  and  the 
cow — which  seemed  to  have  taken  naturally  to  her  mistress 
from  a  general  sense  of  bouiness — or,  as  Michael  Duffy 
called  it,  '*  figures,''  common  between  them — stopped  also. 
"  I  axed  ye,  Larry  llanlon,  why  not?  " 

Larry,  whose  mental  barometer  always  ran  down  to 
"  stormy  "  when  his  wife  called  him  by  his  full  name, 
stammered  out : 

"  Why — I  thought — maybe — Biddy,  dear — that  it  widn't 
be  just  right.  Maybe  the  '  good  people ' — God  save  us — 
widn't  like  it.  Sure,  ye  know  the  castle  's  on  their  walk, 
an'  that  they  built  it  thimselves,  all  in  one  night,  an'  we 
never  put  any  livin'  thing  into  it  afore,  barrin'  turf." 

In  truth,  this  was  an  objection  so  serious  that  had  it  only 
first  entered  into  Biddy's  own  mind  she  would  no  more 
have  thought  of  putting  the  cow  into  the  castle  than  she 
would  of  i)utting  her  in  her  own  "  bedroom  parlor."  But 
the  good  woman  was  committed  to  the  measure,  and, 
right  or  AvroTig,  she  had  a  soul  beyond  surrender.  She 
was  also  skillful  in  defense. 

"An'  that's  all  my  thanks!"  she  grumbled,  in  a 
strangely  mingled  tone  of  pathos  and  complaint;  "  af ther 
me  turnin'  every  sod  of  turf  out  of  id  wid  my  own  two 
Idesscd  hands,  like  a  black  slave  " — she  should  liave  said  a 
yellow  one — ''  you  come  home  an'  tell  me  when  you  're  full 
of  wiiisky  " — he  was  quite  sober — "  about  fairies,  and 
castles,  an'  the  Lord  knows  wdiat,  as  if  " — and  here  she 
gathered  strength  to  crush  him — "as  if  I  didn't  know  my- 
self ten  times  more  about  sich  things  than  you  or  one 
bclongin'  to  you,  an'  the  charm  in  my  own  family,  that  my 
(ousin,  Jemmy  Mulroy,  i)roiiiises  to  lave  me  on  bris  dyin' 
dav,  jih^i'V  be  to  (lod  !  " 

The  good  lady  walked  off,  leaving  her  husband  utterly 
routed — the  cow,  with  that  unfailing  instinct  which  tells 
the  lower  animals  their  real  master,  following  behind  her. 


I 


WILLIAM    BOYLE.  2G7 

Castlcshana<;lias,  or,  as  it  was  more  popularly  called, 
Fairy  Castle,  was  a  small  ivy-covered  ruin,  standing  on  the 
verge  of  Ilanlon's  farmyard.  Two  of  its  sides  had  disap- 
peared half-way  down,  but  at  the  angle  of  the  remaining 
sides  there  stood  a  substantial  round  turret  of  considerable 
height,  with  a  circular  apartment,  of  about  ten  feet  in 
diameter,  at  the  top,  to  be  reached  by  a  stone  staircase 
winding  in  the  interior  fi-om  the  base.  The  first  floor, 
whicli  was  the  only  one  remaining,  was  composed  of  a 
solid  arch  of  masonry,  so  that  the  basement,  in  wliich  Mrs. 
Planlon  had  decided  to  locate  the  new  cow,  and  from  which 
the  staircase  wound,  was  an  arched  compartment  of  the 
entire  length  and  breadth  of  the  tower. 

The  ruin,  largely  overrun  by  ivy,  in  which  countless 
sparrows  had  taken  up  their  abode,  might  have  been 
picturesque  but  for  the  somewhat  shabby  farmyard  sur- 
roundings with  which  Time,  that  old  satirist,  had  mocked 
it.  Learned  antiquarians  who  had  seen  it  said  that  the 
men  who  had  built  it  had  copied  from  the  Spaniards.  This 
decision  seemed  profane  and  wicked  to  the  local  faith, 
which  held  that  the  structure  was  erected  in  a  single  night 
by  fairies  wherein  to  celebrate  the  nuptial  festivities  of 
their  youthful  king  and  queen. 

The  antiquarian  idea  was  therefore  rejected  by  the 
neighborhood  with  all  the  scorn  which  such  an  unromantic 
stovy  of  the  castle's  origin  deserved.  "  As  if  a  pair  o'  bald- 
headed  ould  blades,  wid  their  books  an'  maps  an'  goggles, 
could  tell  more  about  it  in  a  quarther  of  an  hour  nor  da- 
cent,  sinsible  Christians,  wid  charms  in  their  families, 
who  wor  lookin'  at  it  all  their  lives,  an'  could  see  the  very 
road  the  fairies  thraveled  every  blessed  dav  thev  riz  I  "  Bv 
which  description  there  is  ample  reason  to  suppose  that 
Mrs.  Ilanlon  meant  herself. 

It  was  not  without  grave  misgivings  that  she  led  the  way 
to  the  fairy  castle.  But  Avhat  would  you  have  a  woman 
do?  Her  character  for  consistency — or,  what  was  much 
the  same,  for  obstinacy — was  at  stake;  and,  as  she  flung 
out  all  the  turf  in  the  touching  manner  she  had  described, 
in  order  to  make  room  for  the  cow,  in  the  cow  should  go. 
Besides,  the  desecration  of  the  fairy  boudoir,  if  there  were 
a  desecration  in  the  transaction,  was  clearly  at  her  hus- 
band's door,  not  at  hers,  for  he  was  the  first  to  drag  fairies 


2GS  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

into  the  matter.  Clearly  Mrs.  Uanlou  was  in  the  right 
anyhow. 

Into  the  eastle,  tlierefore,  the  cow  was  inducted.  She 
was  littered,  fetl,  watered,  and  milked — and  a  ji,ood  yield 
of  milk  she  i;ave,  too,  it  was  remarked.  Then  some  hay 
was  left  her  for  consumption  during  the  night,  and,  to 
nmke  all  safe,  a  chain  and  padlock  was  fastened  on  the  out- 
side of  the  door — the  only  modern  portion  of  the  structure 
— and  carefully  locked  by  Biddy's  own  hand. 

Mrs.  liaulon  was  not  a  person  disposed  to  let  her  bone 
go  with  the  dog,  or  her  cow  with  tlie  fairies,  Avithout  a 
sti'uggle;  so,  after  she  had  put  all  the  children  to  bed,  and 
before  she  herself  retired,  she  stole  out  and  listened 
cautiously  at  the  castle  door.  The  cow  was  all  right,  and 
could  be  distinctly  heard  grinding  away  at  her  hay.  The 
good  woman  made  a  sacred  sign  at  the  door  and  with- 
drew. 

I>ut  the  new  inhabitant,  being  a  cow  of  a  capacious 
stomach — several  capacious  stomachs,  I  believe  I  shouhl 
say — and  of  an  energetic  turn  of  mind  on  the  question  of 
supplies,  no  sooner  had  she  devoured  all  the  hay  which  had 
been  set  before  her  than  she  began  to  explore  the  premises 
for  more.  With  this  laudable  intention  she  traversed 
round  and  round  her  domain,  and  when  she  stopped,  rather 
disgusted  with  her  fruitless  eli'orts,  she  found  her  nose  at 
the  bottom  of  the  spiral  staircase,  up  which  she  scented  the 
fresh  night  air.  She  had  l)een  bred  upon  the  mountains, 
and  was  accustomed  from  her  infancy  to  poke  her  nose  and 
force  her  body  into  all  sorts  of  rocky  nooks  and  crevices  in 
search  of  food. 

There  was  no  telling  what  undiscovered  treasure  lay 
above  tlicse  steps.  What  loads  of  hay,  what  acres  of 
scent(*(l  meadow,  what  pits  of  succulent  and  luscious  tur- 
nij)s  might  not  li(;  beyond  her  and  above  her!  One  trifling 
i'lTort  and  the  blissful  Eldorado  she  had  often  dimly 
dreamt  of  on  her  sunny  mountainsides  in  happy  calfhood 
might  be  her  own.  Talk  not  of  Jack  and  his  Beanstalk  as 
jK'culiar  only  to  the  human  tribe.  Nature  promi)ting  for 
sui)plies  is  the  riial  parent  of  romance.  The  cow  began 
to  a.scend.  No  doubt,  when  she  got  some  way  up,  "  hopes 
and  fears  that  kind  hi  hope;  "  must  have  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  th(!  tabletH  of  her  brain.     Iliit  there  was  no  retreat. 


WILLIAM    BOYLE.  2G9 

She  could  not  descend  backwards,  and  she  could  not  turn 
around.     There  was  clearly  nothinj^  for  it  but  to  push  on. 

The  time  and  toil  it  must  have  cost  this  Christopher 
Columbus  of  the  cowshed  to  reach  the  New  World  she  was 
searchin<j;  for,  human  ingenuity  can  never  reckon.  The 
Turret  Chamber,  somehow,  and  in  some  time  l)efore  morn- 
ing, she,  however,  reached,  where,  probably  exhausted  with 
her  ascent,  she  lay  down  to  rest.  The  descent  the  poor 
beast  was  never  destined  to  accomplish. 

Mrs.  Hanlon,  who  was  about  betimes  in  the  morning, 
hastened  to  inspect  the  new  purchase.  She  unlocked  the 
castle  door  and  walked  in,  at  first  step  incredulous  of  the 
evidence  of  her  eyesight,  and  then  in  blank  amazement. 
She  rushed  back  wildly  to  the  dwelling-house,  and,  in  an 
agitated  voice,  accosted  her  husband,  who  was  dressing: 

"  Come  out  o'  that,  1  say  I  But  it 's  you  that 's  long  in 
decoratin'  yourself !  An'  sure,  the  bed  might  be  stole  from 
anondher  us  afore  you  'd  miss  it  if  ye  hadn't  me  to  look 
af ther  3'e.  Here 's  a  nice  affair !  The  new  cow  stole  out 
o'  the  stable  from  us,  an'  you  takin'  it  as  quiet  as  if  nothin' 
happened.  D'ye  hear  me,  I  finy?  The  new  cow's  stole 
out  o'  the  stable !  " 

"  Is  id  out  o'  the  castle,  Biddy?  "  Larry  inquired  from  the 
bedroom. 

"  Ay,  out  o'  the  castle,  if  ye  like  that  betther,  though  it 's 
all  the  one  to  me  it  seems  whin  she  is  gone,  castle  or  no 
castle,"  Biddy  retorted. 

"  Are  ye  sure  ye  looked  all  roun'  inside,  Bidd}'?  "  the 
husband  interrogated,  still  unseen. 

"  Sure?  Musha,  that 's  a  nice  thing  to  ax  me,  as  if  I  was 
an  omadhaun,^  instead  o'  yer  own  born  wife  on  the  flure 
wid  ye.  I  tell  ye  she  's  not  in  id.  I  took  the  key  an'  opened 
the  door  myself." 

"  An'  did  they  break  the  lock,  or  dhraw  the  staple,  or 
what?  "  Larry  inquired,  making  his  appearance  with  only 
one  stocking  on. 

"  The  not  a  break  or  breck  was  on  it,"  Biddy  answered, 
as  though  the  question  was  irrelevant.  "What  wid  it  be 
bruck  for?  Wasn't  it  myself  that  locked  it  last  night,  an' 
myself  that  opened  it  this  morning?  But  the  divil  resave 
the  cow  (God  i^ardon  me!)  was  inside!  " 

^  Oinadhaiua,  a  fool. 


27U  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

"  Aw  I  Biddy,  jewel,  it  \s  not  good  she  was !  "  Hanlon 
cried,  staiiiiered  at  the  suspieiou  which  begau  to  cross  him. 

'*  Sure  we  hadn't  time  to  tell  whether  she  was  good,  bad, 
01-  middlin',"  31rs.  Ilanlon  answered,  purposely  misunder- 
standiuii  him;  "  an'  if  she  was  the  worst  cow  that  ever  gev 
ihc  makin's  of  a  churuin',  you  're  not  goin'  to  let  her  wid  the 
robbers  that  way — the  vagaboues !  " 

"  Biddy,  Biddy,  mind  what  y'  are  sayin' ! ''  Larry  mur- 
mured mysteriously.  "  She  wasn't  good  to  meddle  wid,  I 
mane;  an'  it 's  the  fairies  has  her  this  minute,  or  I  'm  much 
mistak(^n.     Don't  you  say  the  door  was  locked,  a-liagur? '' 

The  impossibility  of  abstracting  the  cow  through  the 
keyhole  now  presented  itself  to  the  excited  housewife  for 
the  first  time,  and  as  locks  were  regarded  with  unbounded 
confidence  in  that  primitive  region — the  idea  of  a  duplicate 
k«'y  never  once  entered  the  imagination  of  the  worthy 
couple. 

Here  was  a  new  and  far  more  serious  view  of  things. 
Had  she,  the  prudent,  pious  Mrs.  Hanlon,  who  had  a  charm 
in  her  own  famil}',  been  guilty  of  the  iniquity  of  advising — 
nay,  commanding — that  an  insult  should  be  offered  to  the 
most  vindictive  portion  of  the  invisible  creation?  For 
several  moments  she  was  stricken  dumb.  But  Biddv  Han- 
Ion  was  not  the  woman  to  remain  long  undecided. 

"  Look  about  ye,  Larry,"  she  said,  still  taking  the 
initiative;  "maybe  they  left  her  down  at  O'Flynn's  fort, 
th<'  way  they  did  Jenny  Gallagher's  baby,  the  great  God 
presarve  us  I  "  and  the  good  dame  reverently  raised  her 
hands  and  eyes  and  performed  a  devout  curtsy. 

"  Oh!  throth  I  '11  look  all  round  the  whole  place  afore  I 
rise  any  rout  at  all  about  her,"  Larry  remarked,  with  a 
slight  savor  of  the  matter-of-fact  about  him.  "  Maybe 
sh(^  got  out  some  way." 

They  searched  the  farmyai'd  and  buildings,  up  and  down 
and  in  and  out;  the^'  searched  the  fields,  the  fairy  fort, 
highways  and  byways  all  the  country  around,  and  all  with- 
out success,  because  they  never  thought  of  searching  at  the 
top  of  the  castle. 

Then  they  sent  for  Jemmy  Mulroy,  the  cow-charmer. 

Jemmy  couhl  charm  Inick  the  milk  to  a  cow  that  had  lost 
it.  W'hen^  was  the  wonder,  lh(^ii,  if  he  could  charm  back  a 
cow  to  her  byre?     And  if  he  sometimes  failed  to  restore 


WILLIAM    BOYLE.  271 

the  missinjj;  commodity  to  its  rightful  owner,  he  never 
failed  to  tell  him  who  it  was  that  had  it,  which  was  the  next 
best  thing  and  a  comfort  in  itself,  as  the  crime  was  certain 
to  be  laid  upon  the  shoulders  of  some  one  with  whom  the 
loser  v.as  only  on  indilferent  terms.  So  that  if  Jemmv 
could  not  (juite  recover  the  cow  for  his  cousins,  there  was 
no  doubt,  judging  by  analogy,  that  he  could  tell  them  where 
on  earth  she  was  gone  to.  As  each  successive  natural 
effort  to  trace  the  missing  animal  began  and  ended  in 
failure,  the  Hanlons'  faith  in  the  strength  of  Jemmy's 
magic  increased. 

The  first  and  most  essential  requisite  for  a  successful 
issue  of  the  necromancer's  undeitaking  was  a  bottle  of 
whisky.  Precluded  by  the  stern  discipline  of  his  avocation 
from  demanding  it,  the  operator  usually  resorted  to  the 
diplomatic  intervention  of  a  pocket  corkscrew,  which 
he  produced  in  the  presence  of  the  uninitiated  employer  of 
his  potent  charms  with  the  suggestive  side  observation : 
"  You  '11  be  wanted  bineby  whin  the  bottle  comes."  This 
never  failed  to  illuminate  the  dullest  intellect,  and  was, 
besides,  productive  of  a  vague  feeling  of  the  presence  of 
mysterious  and  unlimited  mechanical  appliances,  such 
articles  of  personal  adornment  as  corkscrews  being  rarely 
seen  in  those  days. 

Jemmy  soon  responded  to  the  summons.  He  was  a 
little,  round-shouldered,  old  man,  dressed  in  corduroy 
breeches,  blue  stockings,  and  faded  red  waistcoat,  and  a 
light-gra}^  frieze  coat  of  the  swallow-tail  denomination. 
His  hat  was  just  beginning  to  show  signs  of  settling  down 
in  life,  and,  to  finish  all,  he  carried  one  of  the  crookedest 
walking-sticks  that  ever  made  a  tortuous  passage  from  a 
man's  hand  to  the  earth. 

On  the  present  occasion  Jemmy's  corkscrew,  having  only 
the  ordinary  duties  of  its  kind  to  accomplish,  was  closed 
with  great  solemnity  and  restored  to  its  resting-place. 
Jemmy  then  filled  a  glass  of  whisky  for  himself,  and  drank 
it  off  without  further  ceremony.  After  this  he  filled  and 
handed  a  glass  each  to  Larrv  and  his  Avife,  ungallantlv 
leaving  the  lady  for  last.  Then  he  lightly  put  back  the 
cork,  and  placed  the  bottle  on  the  hob  beside  the  fire  for  his 
own  exclusive  sustaiument  during  the  performance  of  his 
mystic  operations. 


271'  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Althoiiiih  Mrs.  llanlon  was  not  sufficiently  inured  to 
ardent  spirits  to  dispose  of  her  portion  witliout  the  in- 
vocation of  a  few  tears,  she  strugtiied  bravely  with  the  task, 
lest  any  womanly  reluctance  on  her  part  to  comply  with 
her  cousin's  ritual  mii2;ht  hinder  the  efficacy  of  his  charms. 
After  this  preliminary  it  was  necessary  to  visit  the  scene  of 
the  abduction,  where  Jemmy  wisely  shook  his  head  and 
held  his  toui^ue.  On  returning;  to  the  kitchen  he  ordered 
three  bottles  to  be  tilled  with  salt  and  water,  and  ranged 
beside  the  other  bottle  already  on  the  hob.  The  children 
were  turned  out  of  the  house,  and  Biddy  and  Larry  also 
withdrew,  leaving  the  charmer  alone. 

In  about  half  an  hour  the  good  housewife,  whose  im- 
patient curiosity  had  grown  the  better  of  her  superstition, 
stole  softly  back,  and  peeped  through  the  kitchen  window. 
She  could  just  see  the  skirts  of  Jemmy's  coat  round  the 
edge  of  a  siiort  wall  which  screened  the  fireplace  from  the 
open  door.  He  was  holding  a  low  conversation  with  the 
bottles,  and  she  withdrew  in  awe.  But  the  window  had  a 
marvelous  attraction.  Surely  there  could  be  no  great  harm 
in  a  res])ectful  peep  by  one  who  might  herself  some  day  be 
initiated  into  the  complete  performance.  Mrs.  llanlon 
again  reached  the  window.  This  time  Jemmy  spoke  an 
intelligible  tongue.  His  words  w^ere  addressed  to  the 
h(juse  dog,  which  had  remained  indoors,  and  gave  him  some 
annoyance  by  crawling  underneath  his  legs,  and  to  the  cat, 
whose  luxurious  instincts  lured  her  to  the  pillowing  round- 
ness of  the  necromancer's  shoulders,  where  pussy  had 
established  herself  with  such  a  general  sense  of  comfort 
that  she  could  only  adequately  express  her  feelings  by 
softly  bursting  into  song.  Mrs.  Hanlon,  whose  commenda- 
ble desire  to  behold  as  much  as  possible  had  impelled  her  to 
sf|ueeze  her  countenance  into  on("  corner  of  the  v/indow, 
saw,  and  amazement  filled  her.  Still,  she  failed  to  dis- 
cover any  conn(iction  between  this  animal  intrusiveness 
and  the  words  which  followed: 

"  Yez  are  over  me  an'  yez  are  ondlier  me  an'  yez  are  all 
roun'  me!"  Jemmy  helplessly  exclaimed.  "But  sorra 
bit  1  'd  mind  yez,  only  I  can't  stand  flays!" 

Mrs.  liunlon's  nose  was  becoming  flat  and  bloodless,  and 
her  bi-eatji  bad  dimmed  the  glass  out  of  all  transparency, 
but   if   Peeping   Tom   himself,   and   tlie   whole   half-dozen 


WILLIAM   BOYLE.  273 

wives  of  Blue  Renrd  were  tuji,j»ing  with  a  warning  at  her 
elbow,  the  good  hidy  would  not  have  found  it  in  her  to 
desert  her  post  of  observation. 

"  He  is  lightin'  thini !  He  is  fightin'  thim  !  "  she  thought. 
"  Law !  how  I  'd  like  to  see  thim  I  " 

At  that  moment  the  cow  upon  the  top  of  the  castle  lifted 
up  her  voice  and  bawled. 

''  By  the  i)Owers  o'  war  I  "  she  exclaimed,  "  they  're  in  the 
air  over  us,  an'  the  cow  in  tiie  nuddle  o'  thim !  No  woudher 
Jemmy  said  they  wor  over  him  an'  ondher  him  an'  all 
round  him !  " 

"  Moo-oo-ooh ! "  bellowed  the  cow,  hungry,  upon  her 
loftv  eminence. 

"  Where,  in  the  name  o'  gracious,  is  she?  Is  it  up  the 
chimbley,  Biddy,  dear?  "  Larry  asked,  rushing  up  with  the 
children  all  after  him. 

"Whist,  I  tell  ye!"  Biddy  answered.  "She's  among 
the  fairies,  an'  Jemmy  's  on  their  thrack,  magha  hrayh!  "  ^ 

"The  Lord  presarve  us  all  this  blessed  day!"  Larry 
devoutly  ejaculated.     "  Jemmy  is  the  hayro  o'  the  world !  " 

Again  the  cow's  plaintive  low  burst  above  them,  and  one 
of  the  quick-eyed  urchins  discerned  drimmin'8^  face  and 
horns  protruding  through  the  turret  battlements. 

"  Look,  Daddy,  look  !  "  the  child  cried;  "  she  's  above  on 
the  top  o'  the  castle !  " 

"  Musha,  more  power  to  yer  elbow,  Jemmy,  jewel !  but 
it 's  yerself  tliat  done  it  about  right  this  time,  an3'wa3' !  " 
Larry  roared  out,  losing  all  self-control  as  he  danced  about 
in  delight  and  wonder  on  beholding  his  lost  animal's  ruby 
visage  high  up  among  the  ivy. 

"  What 's  this  noise  for? "  Jemmy  Mulroy  asked  in- 
dignantly, coming  to  the  door. 

"  The  cow !  the  cow !  ye  brought  her  back  to  us !  "  Larry 
made  answer.  "  She  's  down  as  far  as  the  top  o'  the  castle ! 
Give  thim  launali  wallah,^  my  houchal,"^  now  you're  at  it, 
an'  3^e '11  have  her  on  the  ground  in  less  than  no  time!  " 

Jemmy,  whose  belief  in  his  own  success  in  the  present 
instance  was  of  the  vaguest,  and  whose  sight  did  not  en- 

1  Magha  bragh,  out  tliey  went.        -  Drimvifn,  cow. 
8  Laanali,  i(.\illah,  the  lull  ol'  it.        •*  L'oadud,  hoy. 

18 


274  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

able  liim  to  pcrcoivc  (he  visible  ]H)rtioii  of  the  beast  upon 
the  ni!-ret,  jsaid,  with  au  eye  to  ultimate  failure: 

'*  Yiz  spoilt  the  chanu  ou  me  I  1  just  bad  her  b}'  the 
horu  the  very  tiuu*  yiz  bawled  out  au'  stopped  uie." 

Mrs.  IJaulou,  who  had  remained  silent  since  she  left  the 
window,  wraijped  in  a<lmiration  as  she  was,  here  turned  a 
look  ui)on  her  husband  Vshieh  had  nuide  him  wish  not  that 
hi'  had  not  been  born,  but  that  he  had  been  born  dumb. 

''No,  Jemmy,  no!"  he  answered  eagerly,  "Sure  ye 
have  her  anyway;  and  if  ye  can't  finish  the  job  all  out, 
maybe  we  can  manage  to  get  her  down  ourselves." 

*'  Let  me  se(^  the  crather  anvwav,"  Jemmv  said,  curious 
to  solve  the  riddle  of  the  cow's  peculiar  eminence. 

Together  thev  all  entered  the  enchanted  castle  and  as- 
cended  to  the  turret-chamber.  On  the  steps  unmistakable 
traces  of  the  coav's  progress  that  way  remained  visible  to 
all.     Not,  however,  to  ^Mrs.  Ilanlon. 

"  Begorra  !  it 's  climbed  up  the  steps  she  did !  "  Larry  ex- 
claimed, brightening. 

His  wife  again  turned  upon  him  the  look  already 
mentioned,  and  the  little  flickering  light  upon  his  counte- 
nance was  made  ghastly  in  its  glare. 

"  If  she  got  up  thim  steps  be  herself,  Larry  Hanlon,  why 
doesn't  she  get  down  thim  be  herself?  " 

To  this  poser  Larry  helplessly  replied  that  maybe  she 
wasn't  able. 

"  Thin,  thank  God,  good  nmn,  that  ye  have  thim  belong- 
ing: to  vour  wife  that's  able,"  she  retorted. 

Jemmy  wisely  held  his  peace.  Such  materialistic  sug- 
gestions were  beneath  his  notice.  Silently  he  ascended  to 
the  cow's  ai)artment,  silently  he  looked  all  round  it,  and 
silently  he  descended  to  the  earth — Mrs.  Ilanlon  and  her 
husband  respectfully  following  his  footsteps.  Thus  they 
returned  to  the  dwelling-house,  where  the  charmer  took  up 
his  whisky-bottle,  filled  for  himself,  and  pai'took  thereof. 
Then  he  took  the  three  other  bottles  containing  the  salt  and 
water  severally,  laid  them  on  the  kitchen  table,  and  broke 
silence. 

"  To-night,"  he  said,  "  when  the  clock  strikes  twelve, 
fie  a  knot  on  Ihe  cow's  tail  and  give  her  one  of  these.  The 
second  one  ye  '11  have  to  give  her  when  tho.  cock  crows  once 
iu  the  moinin',  and  the  third  ye  must  take  and  bury  in  the 


WILLIAM    BOYLE.  275 

gardeu  to-morrow.  On  the  third  day  from  now,  if  yez 
haven't  j^ot  her  on  the  j'roun',  yez  may  make  up  yer  minds 
to  fatten  her  where  she  is,  for  if  the  fairies  mi  lies  her  three 
times  more  she  -11  never  ate  };reeu  f;rass  on  tliis  eartli. 
What's  done  can't  be  on(h)ne,  an'  1  won't  bhime  any  one; 
but  if  yez  hadn't  intlirupted  me  at  the  minute  yez  did,  it 's 
not  where  she  is  the  cow  id  be  now." 

Witli  wliich  grave  reproof  of  curiosity  and  levity  Jemmy 
sorowfuUy  fiUed  out  the  hist  drop  of  whisky  in  tlie  bottk^ 
drank  it,  took  the  fee  which  Mrs.  Hanlon  had  silently  laid 
upon  the  table,  and  departed. 

The  charmer's  instructions  were  carefully  complied  with 
as  far  as  was  possible,  Larry  and  his  friend  Duffy  bravini>- 
all  the  fairy  terrors  of  the  castle  and  remaininji;  up  all  nii>,]it 
for  the  purpose.  Just  on  the  stroke  of  twelve,  the  knot 
was  gravely  tied  upon  the  cow's  tail,  and  the  first  bottle 
poured  down  her  throat,  not  without  protest  on  behalf  of 
the  recipient.  Anxiously,  with  strained  ears  and  backs 
creeping  with  affright,  the  two  friends  waited  for  the  cock- 
crow. The  caution  Biddy  gave  them  not  to  sleep  was 
superfluous.  Their  nerves  were  too  much  tried  for  slum- 
ber. Once  or  tAvice  Larry  started  up,  thinking  he  had 
heard  the  signal  he  was  waiting  for.  It  was  only  a  trick 
of  his  imagination.  Then  be  would  sit  down  again  and 
listen  to  the  blood  coursing  through  his  ears — which  he 
doubted  not  was  the  echo  of  the  fairies'  feet — and  to  the 
cow  contentedly  grinding  her  hay.  Duffy  seemed  less 
communicative  than  the  cow. 

At  last,  clear,  long,  and  shrill,  "  the  harbinger  of  early 
morn  "  gave  them  warning.  The  two  men  started  to  their 
feet,  Larry  holding  the  bottle  in  his  hand.  But  before  they 
had  time  to  lay  a  hand  upon  the  patient's  or  rather  victim's 
horn,  the  cock  crew  a  second  time,  and  to  this  they  attrib- 
uted the  subsequent  failure.  Down  the  cow's  throat, 
however,  the  fluid  was  destined  to  go,  the  friends  cunningly 
pledging  themselves  to  keep  the  mishap  from  Mrs.  Hanlon, 
which  they  did  for  three  months  at  least.  They  felt  that 
having  a  second  time  missed  success  by  a  hair's-breadth, 
even  Jemmy  Mulroy  was  now  powerless  to  charm  the  cow 
to  earth,  "charmed  he  never  so  wisely."  So  they  took  his 
hint  and  fattened  her  where  she  was. 

It  was  a  tragic  termination  to  an  aspiring  and  eventful 


276  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

career.  A  temporary  roof  of  sticks  and  straw  was  laid 
across  the  turret  battlement.  A  temporary  manger  was 
erected  imderneatli.  Then  up  the  weary  steps  went  day 
by  day  supplies  of  hay,  and  straw,  and  oilcake,  and  cab- 
bajj^e,  and  turnips,  and  water,  and  bucketfuls  of  white 
mealy  drink,  hot  and  steaming;,  of  all  which  the  unsus- 
pecting prisoner  freely,  and  even  ravenously  partook,  and 
from  which  she  apparently  derived  large  internal  comfort. 
But  her  high  mountain  birth  and  breeding  precluded  her 
from  much  obesity,  and  it  was  supposed  that  the  fairies 
must  continue  milking  her;  for,  though  she  devoured 
twice  the  quantity  of  food  of  any  stalled  ox  in  the  barony, 
the  resultant  accumulation  of  beef  was  no  more  than  half. 
Michael  Dult'y  said  it  was  the  keen  air  so  far  up  that  did 
it.  One  day  the  usual  supply  of  edibles  did  not  go  up  the 
winding  staircase.  The  l)utclier  man  went  instead,  fol- 
lowed by  an  attendant,  bearing  the  peculiar  arms  of  his 
craft. 

I  will  draw  a  veil  over  what  ensued. 

AMiether  it  is  that  fairy  money,  or  monej'  derived  from 
sources  over  which  fairies  may  have  had  control,  has  a  way 
of  multiplying  of  its  own.  Jemmy  Mulroy  could  no  doubt 
tell,  but  I  cannot.  Anyhow,  it  was  lucky  money  that 
Larry  received  from  the  butcher  for  this  cow.  Xot  liking 
to  buy  anything  with  it,  lest  there  might  be  further  trouble, 
Larry  put  the  price  of  the  cow  in  bank.  It  was  the  first 
money  he  had  ever  put  away  in  such  a  manner,  but  once 
the  custom  was  begun  he  rapidly  developed  a  taste  for  call- 
ing at  the  bank,  till  at  last  he  became  a  well-known  figure 
at  its  broad  counter  on  a  fair  or  market  day. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  llanlon  are  now  people  of  importance. 
They  ride  their  own  jaunting-car,  and  have  a  son  a  student 
in  Maynooth.  But  with  all  Biddy's  worldly  success,  she 
suffered  a  keen  disappointment  when,  after  the  death  of 
Jenim^'  Mulroy,  she  discovered  that  he  had  left  his  charm 
to  a  more  distant  relative,  who  happened  to  possess  the 
advantage  of  knowing  Irish,  in  which  language  alone  it 
could  be  transmitted.  Nevertheless,  her  pride  is  consoled 
by  proclaiming,  whenever  an  opportunity  arises,  that  there 
is  still  a  charm  in  her  family,  and  the  young  fellows  round 
about,  wlien  they  look  into  her  daugliter's  bright  eyes,  and 
rfrnember  the  fortune  waiting  for  her  in  the  bank,  never 
think  for  a  moment  of  disputing  the  assertion. 


WILLIAM    BOYLE.  277 

PHILANDERING. 

Maui'CPn,  acushla,  ah !  why  such  a  frown  on  you ! 

Sure,  't  is  your  own  purty  smiles  shouhl  be  there, 
Under  those  ringlets  that  make  such  a  crown  on  3'ou, 

As  the  sweet  angels  themselves  seem  to  wear, 
When  from  the  picthers  in  church  they  look  down  on  you, 
Kneeling  in  prayer. 

Troth,  no,  you  needn't,  there  isn't  a  drop  on  me, 

Barriu'  one  half-one  to  keep  out  the  cowld; 
And,  Maureen,  if  you  '11  throw  a  smile  on  the  top  o'  me, 

Half-one  was  never  so  sweet,  I  '11  make  bowld. 
But,  if  you  like,  dear,  at  once  put  a  stop  on  me 
Life  with  a  scowld. 

Red-haired  Kate  Ryan? — Don't  mention  her  name  to  me! 

I  've  a  taste,  Maureen  darlin',  whatever  I  do. 
But  I  kissed  her? — Ah,  now,  would  you  even  that  same  to 
me? — 
Ye  saw  me !    Well,  well,  if  ye  did,  sure  it 's  true, 
But  I  don't  want  herself  or  her  cows,  and  small  blame  to  me 
When  I  know  you. 

There  now,  aroon,  put  an  ind  to  this  strife  o'  me 
Poor  frightened  heart,  my  own  Maureen,  my  duck ; 

Troth,  till  the  day  comes  when  you  '11  be  made  wife  o'  me, 
Night,  noon,  and  mornin',  my  heart  '11  be  bruck. 

Kiss  me,  acushla!    My  darlin'  !    The  life  o'  me! 
One  more  for  luck! 


JOSEPH    BRENAN. 

(1828—1857.) 

Joseph  Brenan  was  born  in  Cork,  Nov.  17,  1828.  ■  He  became  a 
journalist  in  1847,  and  about  the  same  time  married  a  sister  of  John 
Savage.  ''Brenan,"  says  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy,  "was  one  of  the 
most  powerful  and  eloquent  of  the  younger  writers  in  1848."  He 
contributed  poems  to  The  Nation  and  to  Tlie  Irishman^  of  which 
latter  he  became  editor. 

He  was  supposed  to  have  been  concerned  in  an  attack  on  the 
Cappoquin  police  barracks  and  in  1849  he  fled  to  this  country.  In 
1853  he  partly  lost  his  sight,  and  before  he  died  was  quite  blind. 
Pie  became  editor  of  The  New  Orleans  Times  soon  after  he  had 
settled  in  that  city,  and  died  there  in  1857. 

COME    TO    ME,    DEAREST. 

Come  to  luo,  dearest,  I  'm  lonely  without  thee ; 
Day-time  and  night-time  1  'm  thinking  about  thee; 
Xiglit-time  and  day-time  in  dreams  I  behold  tbee, 
Unwelcome  the  waking  that  ceases  to  fold  thee. 
Come  to  me,  darling,  my  sorrows  to  lighten, 
Come  in  thy  beauty  to  bless  and  to  brighten, 
Come  in  thy  womanhood,  meekly  and  lowly. 
Come  in  thy  lovingness,  queenly  and  holy. 

Swallows  shall  flit  round  the  desolate  ruin. 

Telling  of  spring  and  its  joyous  renewing; 

And  thoughts  of  thy  love,  and  its  manifold  treasure,  g 

Are  circling  my  heart  with  a  ])romise  of  pleasure;  f 

O  Spring  of  my  spirit  I  O  May  of  my  bosom ! 

Shine  out  on  my  soul  till  it  burgeon  and  blossom — 

The  waste  of  my  life  has  a  rose-root  within  it. 

And  thy  fondness  alone  to  the  sunshine  can  win  it. 

Figure  that  moves  like  a  song  through  the  even — 
Features  lit  up  by  a  reflex  of  heaven — 
Eyes  like  the  skies  of  jioor  ICriu,  our  mother, 
Where  sunshine  and  shadows  are  chasing  each  other; 
Smiles  coming  seldom,  but  child-like  and  simple. 
And  opening  their  eyes  fi-om  the  heart  of  a  dimple — 
O  llianks  to  the  Saviour  that  even  thy  seeming 
Is  left  to  the  exile  to  brighten  his  dreaming! 

278 


JOSEPH    BKENAN.  279 

You  have  been  glad  when  vou  knew  I  was  ghiddened ; 
Dear,  are  you  sad  now  to  Iioar  I  am  saddened? 
As  octave  to  octave  and  rhviuo  unto  rhyme,  love. 
Our  hearts  always  answer  in  tune  and  in  time,  love; 
1  cannot  weep  but  your  tears  will  be  flowing— 
You  cannot  smile  but  my  cheeks  will  be  glowing — ■ 
I  would  not  die  without  you  at  my  side,  love — 
You  will  not  linger  when  I  shall  have  died,  love. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  ere  1  die  of  my  sorrow; 
Rise  on  my  gloom  like  the  sun  of  to-morrow; 
Strong,  swift,  and  fond  as  the  words  that  T  speak,  love, 
With  a  song  on  your  lip  and  a  smile  on  your  cheek,  love. 
Come,  for  my  heart  in  your  absence  is  dreary; 
Haste,  for  my  spirit  is  sickened  and  weary; 
Come  to  the  arms  that  alone  should  caress  thee; 
Conie  to  the  heart  that  is  throbbing  to  press  thee! 


CHARLOTTE    BROOKE. 
(1740—1793.) 

Charlotte  Brooke,  the  author  of  Reliques  of  Irish  Poetry,'  was 
one  of  thetwenty-twoohiklreiiof  Henry  Brooke,  the  author  of  '  Gus- 
tavusVasa,' all  of  whom  she  survived.  She  w\as  born  in  1740,  and 
was  fond  of  books  from  a  very  early  age.  In  the  atmosphere  of  a 
home  such  as  hers,  there  v/as  ample  opportunity  of  gratifying  her 
taste  for  antiquarian  lore,  and  often,  while  the  rest  of  the  family 
were  in  bed,  she  would  steal  downstairs  to  the  study,  there  to  lose 
herself  in  her  beloved  books. 

She  was  led  to  the  study  of  the  Irish  language,  and  in  less  than 
two  years  she  found  herself  mistress  of  it.  From  reading  Irish 
poetry  and  admiring  its  l)eauties,  she  proceeded  to  translate  it  into 
English,  one  of  her  earliest  efforts  being  a  song  and  monody  by 
Carolan,  which  appeared  in  Walker's  '  Ilistorical  Memoirs  of  Irish 
Bards.' 

Encouraged  by  tlie  admiration  they  called  forth,  and  by  the  advice 
of  friends,  she  set  herself  to  collect  and  translate  such  works  of 
Irish  poets  as  she  could  procure  and  were  found  worthy  of  appear- 
ing in  an  English  dress.  Her  '  Reliques  of  Irish  Poetry,'  which  ap- 
peared in  1788,  was  the  result.  This  work  has  had  an  important  in- 
fluence on  the  study  of  the  then  almost  foi'gotten  poets  who  had 
written  in  the  Irish  language. 

Miss  Brooke's  other  works  were:  'Dialogue  between  a  Lady  and 
her  Pupils';  'The  School  for  Cliristians,'  'Natural  History,  etc.,' 
'  Emma,  or  the  Foundling  of  the  Wood,'  a  novel,  and  '  Belisarius,' 
a  tragedy. 

Unfortunately,  Charlotte  Brooke  was  influenced  by  the  taste  of 
the  time;  she  translated  the  vigorous  and  natural  Irish  idiom  into 
formally  elegant  phraseology  and  gave  it  the  form  of  classical  odes, 
with  strophe  and  antistrophe,  and  artificialities  of  that  kind.  She 
had,  however,  a  fine  spirit  of  appreciation,  and  brought  to  her  work 
not  only  her  own  personal  enthusiasm,  but  the  knowledge  and  learn- 
ing which  she  had  gained  from  her  father  ( q.v.). 

ODE  ON  HIS  SHIP. 

From  the  Irish  of  Maurice  Fitzgerald. 

P>less  my  fijoofl  sliift,  jn-otectinjij  power  of  grace! 
And  o'er  the  winds,  the  waves,  the  destined  coast, 
Breathe,  benign  spirit! — Let  thy  radiant  host 

Spread  their  angelic  shields! 
Before  us  the  bright  l)ul\vaik  let  tliem  place, 

And  fly  beside  us,  through  tlieir  azure  fields! 

280' 


CHARLOTTI'J    BROOKE.  281 

Oh  calm  the  voice  of  winter's  storm ! 

Rule  the  wr.ath  of  .ingry  seas! 
The  fury  of  the  rending  blast  appease, 
Nor  let  its  rage  fair  ocean's  face  deftjrm! 

Oh  check  the  biting  wind  of  spring, 
And,  from  before  our  course, 

Arrest  the  fury  of  its  wing, 
And  terrors  of  its  force ! 
So  may  we  safely  pass  the  dangerous  cape, 
And  from  the  perils  of  the  deep  escape! 

I  grieve  to  leave  the  splendid  seats 

Of  Teamor's  ancient  fame ! 
Mansion  of  heroes,  now  farewell ! 
Adieu,  ye  sweet  retreats, 
Where  the  famed  hunters  of  your  ancient  vale. 
Who  swelled  the  high  heroic  tale, 
Were  wont  of  old  to  dwell ! 
And  you,  briglit  tribes  of  sunny  streams,  adieu! 
While  my  sad  feet  their  mournful  path  pursue. 
Ah,  well  their  lingering  steps  my  grieving  soul  proclaim! 

Receive  me  now,  ni}"  ship ! — hoist  now  thy  sails 

To  catch  the  favoring  gales. 
Oh  Heaven !   before  thy  awful  throne  I  bend ! 
Oh  let  thy  power  thy  servant  now  protect ! 
Increase  of  knowledge  and  of  v.isdom  lend. 
Our  course  through  every  peril  to  direct; 

To  steer  us  safe  through  ocean's  rage. 
Where  angry  storms  their  dreadful  strife  maintain. 

Oh  may  thy  power  their  wrath  assuage ! 
May  smiling  suns  and  gentle  breezes  reign ! 

Stout  is  my  well-built  ship,  the  storm  to  brave. 
Majestic  in  its  might, 

Her  bulk,  tremendous  on  the  wave. 
Erects  its  stately  height! 

From  her  strong  bottom,  tall  in  air 

Her  branching  masts  aspiring  rise: 
Aloft  their  cords  and  curling  heads  they  bear, 
And  give  their  sheeted  ensigns  to  the  skies ; 
While  her  proud  bulk  frowns  awful  on  the  main. 
And  seems  the  fortress  of  the  liquid  plain! 

Dreadful  in  the  shock  of  flight 
She  goes — she  cleaves  the  storm! 


l'S2  liat^II    LITIJh'ATUh'IJ. 

W'lu'io  inin  Avoai-s  its  most  tixMiieiuloiis  form 

She  sails,  exulliug-  in  lior  inii'ht; 
Ou  the  tieiro  uecks  of  foaiiiiuj;-  billows  rides, 

And  through  the  roar 
Of  angry  oivan.  to  the  destined  shore 

Her  course  triumphant  guides; 
As  though  beueath  her  frown  the  winds  were  dead, 
And  each  blue  valley  was  their  silent  bed! 

Through  all  the  perils  of  the  main 
She  knows  her  dauntless  progress  to  maintain  ! 
Through  (luicksands.  Hats,  and  breaking  waves. 
Her  dangerous  ])ath  she  dares  explore; 
Wrecks,  storms,  and  calms  alike  she  braves, 
And  gains  with  scarce  a  breeze  the  wished-for  shore. 

Or  in  the  hour  of  war. 
Fierce  on  she  bounds,  in  conscious  might, 
To  meet  the  promised  light! 

While,  distant  far, 
The  Heets  of  wondering  nations  gaze, 
And  view  her  course  with  emulous  amaze. 
As,  like  some  champion's  son  of  fame, 
She  rushes  to  the  shock  of  arms, 
And  joys  to  mingle  in  the  loud  alarms, 
Impelled  by  rage,  and  fired  will)  glory's  flame! 

As  the  fierce  Griffin's  dreadful  flight  |j 

Her  monstrous  bulk  ajjpears. 

While  o'er  the  seas  her  towering  height. 
And  her  wide  wings,  tremendous  shade!  she  rears. 
Or,  as  a  champion,  thirsting  after  fame — 
The  strife  of  swords,  the  deathless  name — 
So  does  she  seem,  and  such  her  rapid  course! 

Such  is  the  rending  of  her  force; 
When  her  sharp  keel,  where  dreadful  sj)lendors  {)lay, 
Cuts  llii-ougli  liie  foaming  main  its  lirpiid  way. 
Like  llic  red  bolt  of  heaven  she  shoots  along, 
Dire  as  its  flight,  and  as  its  fury  strong! 

God  of  the  winds!  oh  liear  my  j)rayer! 

Safe  passage  now  br-stow! 
Soft  o'er  the  slumbering  deej),  may  fair 

And  prosj)erous  ])ree/x'S  flow! 
O'er  tlu'  rough  rock  and  swelling  wave. 

Do  lliou  our  j)i()gi'ess  guide  I 
Do  thou  fiom  angry  ocean  save, 

And  o'er  its  rage  i)reside! 


CllMtLOTTi:    II ROOK E  283 

Speed  vay  good  ship  along  the  rolling  sea, 
O  heaven !  and  smiling  skies,  and  favoring  gales  decree! 
Speed  the  high -masted  shiji  of  dauntless  force. 
Swift  in  hei-  gliltering  ilight  and  sounding  coursel 
Stately  moving  on  the  main. 
Forest  of  the  azure  plain  ! 
Faithful  to  the  confided  trust, 
To  her  promised  glorv  just; 
Deadly  in  the  strife  of  war, 
Rich  in  every  gift  of  peace, 

Swift  from  afar, 
In  peril's  fearful  hour, 
Mighty  in  force  and  bounteous  in  her  power 
She  conies,  kind  aid  she  lends. 
She  frees  from  supplicating  friends. 
And  fear  before  her  Hies,  and  dangers  cease! 

Hear,  blest  Heaven !  my  ardent  prayer ! 
My  ship — my  crew — oh  take  us  to  thy  care! 
O  may  no  peril  bar  our  way ! 
Fair  blow  the  gales  of  each  proy)itious  day! 

Soft  swell  the  floods,  and  gently  roll  the  tides, 
While,  from  Dunboy,  along  the  smiling  main 

We  sail,  until  the  destined  coast  we  gain. 
And  safe  in  port  our  gallant  vessel  rides! 


HENRY  BROOKE. 
(170G— 1783.) 

Hexry  Brooke,  dramatist,  novelist,  and  essayist,  a  Goldsmith  in 
versatility  if  not  in  genius,  was  born  at  Rantavan,  County  Cavan, 
in  17U6.  His  education  was  obtained  from  Dr.  Sheridan  and  at 
Trinity  College.  In  his  seventeenth  year  he  entered  at  the  Temple, 
and  soon  became  acquainted  with  every  one  in  London  worth  know- 
ing. "  Swift  prophesied  wonders  of  him,"  and  "  Pope  affectionately 
loved  him." 

Returning  to  Ireland,  he  became  guardian  to  his  aunt's  only  child, 
Catherine  Meares,  a  beautiful  girl.  In  a  short  time  love  sprang  up 
between  them  and  they  were  secretly  married  while  as  yet  the  young 
lady  was  in  her  fourteenth  year.  The  match  was  a  happy  one,  and 
remained  so  to  the  end.  In  1732,  at  the  pressing  solicitations  of  his 
friends,  he  went  again  to  London,  to  continue  his  studies  and  enter 
regularly  upon  his  profession.  But  poetry  was  as  fatal  to  him  there 
as  love  had  been  in  Ireland.  Law  was  neglected  for  the  Muses,  and 
in  the  same  year  appeared  his  first  poem,  '  Universal  Beauty,'  which 
Pope  looked  upon  as  a  wonderful  first  production.  Soon  after  he 
was  obliged  to  return  to  Ireland,  and  there  for  some  time  he  devoted 
himself  to  his  profession  as  a  chamber  counsel. 

In  1737  he  went  again  to  London,  where  he  was  received  with 
enthusiasm  by  Pope,  while  Lord  Lyttelton  sought  his  acquaintance, 
and  Mr.  Pitt  spoke  of  him  and  treated  him  with  affectionate  friend- 
ship. Before  this  he  had  published  (in  1738)  a  graceful  and  spirited 
ti-aiislation  of  the  first  three  books  of  Tasso.  '  Gustavus  Vasa '  gave 
offense  to  the  authorities  and  its  production  was  disallowed.  This, 
however,  only  helped  to  add  to  his  fame,  for  his  friends  rallied 
around  him,  the  play  was  printed,  and  he  sold  5,000  copies  at  5s. 
(51.25)  each,  his  pecuniary  reward  being  more  than  it  would  prob- 
ably have  been  had  the  authorities  not  interfered. 

Soon  after  his  return  to  Ireland  he  received  the  appointment 
of  barrack-master  from  Lord  Chesterfield,  and  while  in  this  post 
resumed  his  pen  to  a  certain  extent.  He  wrote  the  '  Farmer's 
Letters,'  something  after  the  style  of  the  '  Drapier  Letters,'  and  in 
the  same  year  (1745)  his  tragedy  '  The  Earl  of  Westmoreland ' 
appeared.  In  1747  four  fables  by  him  were  printed  in  Moore's 
'  Fables  for  the  Female  Sex,'  and  in  1748  his  dramatic  opera  '  Little 
John  and  the  Giants '  was  performed  in  Dublin.  In  1749  his  tragedy 
'The  Earl  of  Essex'  was  performed  at  Dul)l in  with  great  success, 
and  also  afterwards  at  Drury  Lane.  In  176G  he  issued  his  first 
novel,  '  The  Fool  of  Quality,'  a  work  of  unequal  merit,  but  marked 
by  wonderful  flashes  of  genius  in  the  midst  of  much  that  is  mystical. 
In  1772  his  poem  '  Redemption'  appeared,  and  in  1774  his 
second  novel,  'Juliet  Greville.'  In  1778  a  great  number  of  his 
works  were  puVjlished,  most  of  Avliich  had  evidently  been  written  in 
the  apparently  blank  years  of  his  retirement.     These  were  :  '  The 

284 


HENRY   BROOKE.  285 

Last  Speech  of  John  Good,'  '  Antony  and  Cleopatra,'  '  The  Im- 
postor,' '  Cymbeline,'  '  Montezuma,'  '  The  Vestal  Virgin,'  five  trag- 
edies ;  '  The  Contending  Brothers,'  '  The  Charitable  Association,' 
'  The  Female  Officer,'  '  The  Marriage  Contract,'  four  comedies  ;  and 
'Ruth,'  an  oratorio.  Finally,  in  1779,  appeared  the  '  Fox  Chase,'  a 
poem.  On  Oct.  10,  1783,  ho  passed  away,  leaving  of  a  numerous 
family  but  two  to  mourn  his  loss. 

Few  of  his  other  works  are  known  to  the  majority  of  readers 
even  by  name,  except  '  Gustavus  Vasa,'  which  still  keeps  the  stage, 
and  '  The  Fool  of  Quality,'  which  was  reissued  under  the  editorship 
of,  and  with  a  biographical  preface  by,  the  Rev.  Charles  Kingsley, 
and  '  Juliet  Greville.'  Yet  they  are  full  of  splendid  passages,  suffi- 
cient to  start  many  a  modern  poet  or  writer  on  the  road  to  fame. 
His  plays,  with  scarce  an  exception,  are  marked  by  force  and  clear- 
ness. His  poems  are  not  so  brilliant  as  those  of  Pope,  nor  so  sweet 
in  diction  as  those  of  Goldsmith,  but  they  are  full  of  solid  beauties 
and  just  sentiment. 

Brooke's  poetical  works  were  collected  by  his  daughter  Charlotte, 
who  added  some  few  things  not  mentioned  here,  and  published 
them  at  Dublin  in  1792  in  one  volume  8vo. 


A  GENTLEMAN. 

There  is  no  term  in  our  language  more  common  than 
that  of  "  Gentleman  " ;  and  whenever  it  is  heard,  all  agree 
in  the  general  idea  of  a  man  some  way  elevated  above  the 
vulgar.  Yet  perhaps  no  two  living  are  precisely  agreed 
respecting  the  qualities  they  think  requisite  for  constitut- 
ing this  character.  When  we  hear  the  epithets  of  a 
"  fine  Gentleman,"  "  a  pretty  Gentleman,"  "  much  of  a 
Gentleman,"  "  Gentlemanlike,"  "  something  of  a  Gentle- 
man," "nothing  of  a  Gentleman,"  and  so  forth;  all  these 
different  appellations  must  intend  a  peculiarity  annexed 
to  the  ideas  of  those  who  express  them;  though  no  two 
of  them,  as  I  said,  may  agree  in  the  constituent  qualities 
of  the  character  they  have  formed  in  their  own  mind. 

There  have  been  ladies  who  deemed  a  bag-wig,  tasseled 
waistcoat,  new-fashioned  snuff-box,  and  a  sword-knot,  very 
capital  ingredients  in  the  composition  of — a  Gentleman. 
A  certain  easy  impudence  acquired  by  low  people,  by  cas- 
uall}^  being  conversant  in  liigh  life,  has  passed  a  man  cur- 
rent through  many  companies  for — a  Gentleman.  In  the 
country,  a  laced  hat  and  long  whip  uitikes — a  Gentleman. 
In  taverns  and  some  other  places,  he  who  is  the  most  of  a 
bully,  is  the  most  of — a  Gentleman.     With  heralds,  every 


2SG  IRISH    JJTEEATVRE. 

Esquire  is,  indisputably, — a  (lentlemuii.  And  the  bigb 
Avaynian,  in  his  manner  of  takinj»;  your  purse;  and  your 
friend,  in  his  manner  of  deeeiving-  your  wife,  may,  how- 
evi'r,  be  aUowed  to  have — niucli  of  the  (Icntleman.  Plato, 
among  the  philosophers,  was  ''  the  most  of  a  man  of  fash- 
ion '';  and  therefore  allowed,  at  the  court  of  Syracuse,  to 
be — the  most  of  a  Gentleman,  But  seriously,  I  apprehend 
that  this  character  is  pretty  much  upon  the  modern.  In 
all  ancient  or  dead  languages  we  have  no  term,  any  way 
adcMpiate,  whereby  we  may  express  it.  In  the  habits,  man- 
ners, and  characters  of  old  Sparta  and  old  Home,  we  find 
an  antipathy  to  all  the  elements  of  modern  gentility. 
Among  those  rude  and  unpolished  people,  you  read  of 
])hilos(>])hcrs,  of  orators,  patriots,  heroes,  and  demigods; 
but  you  never  hear  of  any  character  so  elegant  as  that  of 
— a  pretty  (leutleman. 

When  those  nations,  however,  became  refined  into  what 
their  ancestors  would  have  called  corruption;  when  luxury 
introduced,  and  fashion  gave  a  sanction  to  certain  sciences, 
which  Cynics  would  have  branded  with  the  ill-mannered 
ai)pellations  of  debauchery,  drunkenness,  gambling,  cheat- 
ing, lying,  etc.,  the  practitioners  assumed  the  new  title  of 
Gentlemen,  till  such  Gentlemen  became  as  plenteous  as 
stars  in  the  milky-way,  and  lost  distinction  merely  by  the 
confluence  of  their  luster.  Wherefore  as  the  said  qualities 
were  found  to  be  of  ready  acquisition,  and  of  easy  descent 
to  the  populace  from  their  betters,  ambition  judged  it 
necessary  to  ad<l  further  marks  and  criterions  for  severing 
the  general  herd  from  the  nobler  species — of  Gentlemen. 

Accordingly,  if  the  commonalty  were  observed  to  have 
a  propensity  to  religion,  their  superiors  affected  a  disdain 
of  such  vulgar  ])rejudices;  and  a  freedom  that  cast  off  the 
restraints  of  morality,  and  a  courage  that  spurned  at  the 
fear  of  a  God,  were  accounted  the  distinguishing  charac- 
teristics— of  a  Gentleman. 

If  the  ])(»])ulace,  as  in  China,  were  industrious  and  in- 
genious, tlie  grandees,  l)y  the  length  of  their  nails  and  the 
cramjting  of  tlieir  limbs,  gave  evidence  that  true  dignity 
was  above  labor  and  utility,  and  that  to  be  born  to  no  end 
waH  the  prerogative — of  a  Gentleman. 

If  the  common  sort,  by  their  conduct,  declare  a  respect 
for  the  institutions  of  civil  society  and  good  government, 


HENRY    BROOKE.  287 

their  betters  despise  sncli  pnsillaniiiious  confonnity,  and 
the  magistrates  pay  beconiiiii;'  r('i;ai'(l  to  the  distinction, 
and  allow  of  the  superior  liberties  and  privileges — of  a 
Gentleman. 

If  the  lower  set  show  a  sense  of  common  honesty  and 
common  order,  those  who  would  figure  in  the  world  think 
it  incumbent  to  demonstrate  that  complaisance  to  inferiors, 
common  manners,  common  equity,  or  anything?  common,  is 
quite  beneath  the  attention  or  sphere — of  a  Gentleman. 

Now,  as  underlings  are  ever  ambitious  of  imitating  and 
usurping  the  manners  of  their  superiors;  and  as  this  state 
of  mortality  is  incident  to  perpetual  change  and  revo- 
lution: it  may  happen,  that  when  the  populace,  by  en- 
croaching on  the  province  of  gentility,  have  arrived  to  their 
nc  plus  ultra  of  insolence,  debauchery,  irreligion,  etc.,  the 
gentry,  in  order  to  be  again  distinguished,  may  assume  the 
station  that  their  inferiors  had  forsaken,  and,  however 
ridiculous  the  supposition  may  appear  at  present,  human- 
ity, equity,  utility,  complaisance,  and  piety  may  in  time 
come  to  be  the  distinguishing  characteristics — of  a  Gentle- 
man. 

It  appears  that  the  most  general  idea  which  people  have 
formed  of  a  Gentleman  is  that  of  a  person  of  fortune  above 
the  vulgar,  and  embellished  by  manners  that  are  fashion- 
able in  high  life.  In  this  case,  fortune  and  fashion  are  the 
two  constituent  ingredients  in  the  composition  of  modern 
Gentlemen;  for  whatever  the  fashion  may  be,  whether 
moral  or  immoral,  for  or  against  reason,  right  or  wrong, 
it  is  equally  the  duty  of  a  Gentleman  to  conform.  And 
yet  I  apprehend,  that  true  gentility  is  altogether  indepen- 
dent of  fortune  or  fashion,  of  time,  customs,  or  opinions  of 
any  kind.  The  very  same  qualities  that  constituted  a 
Gentleman  in  the  first  age  of  the  world,  are  permanently, 
invariably,  and  indispensably  necessary  to  the  constitution 
of  the  same  character  to  the  end  of  time. 


28s  irish  literature. 

go:ne  to  death. 

From  '  The  Earl  of  Essex.' 

Queen.     Is  he  then  gone? — To  death?    Essex  to  death! 
And  by  my  order? — now  perhaps — this  moment! — 
Haste,  Nottingham,  dispatch — 

Xotfi)ig]iaiii.     What  wonUl  yonr  majesty! 

Qitccii.     I  know  not  what— I  am  in  horrors,  Nottingham. 
In  horrors  worse  than  death ! — Does  he  still  live? 
liun,  bring  me  word — yet  stay — can  yon  not  save  him 
Without  Tuy  bidding?     Read  it  in  my  heart — 
In  my  distraction  read — O,  sure  the  hand 
That  saved  him  would  he  as  a  blest  angel's 
Pouring  soft  balm  into  my  rankling  breast — 

yotti)i(/ha))i.     If  it  shall  please  your  majesty  to  give 
Express  commands,  I  shall  obey  them  straight — 
The  world  will  think  it  strange. — But  you  are  queen. 

Queen.     Hard-hearted  Nottingham!  to  arm  my  pride, 

Enter  Rutland,  tcife  of  Essex. 

My  shame,  against  my  mercy. — Ha!  what's  here! 

A  sight  to  strike  resentment  dead,  and  rouse 

&?oft  i)ity  even  in  a  barbarous  breast — 

It  is  the  wife  of  Essex ! 

Rise,  Rutland,  come  to  thy  repentant  mistress: 

See,  thy  queen  bends  to  take  thee  to  her  bosom 

And  foster  thee  for  ever! — Rise. 

Rutland.     Which  way? 
Do  you  not  see  these  circling  steeps? — 
Not  all  the  fathom  lines  that  have  been  loosed 
To  sound  the  bottom  of  the  faithless  main 
Could  reach  to  draw  me  hence.     Never  was  dug 
A  grave  so  deep  as  mine ! — Help  me,  kind  friend, 
Helji  me  to  put  these  little  bones  together — 
These  are  my  messengers  to  yonder  world, 
To  seek  for  some  kind  hand  to  drop  me  down 
A  little  charity. 

Qi'.ccn.     Heart-breaking  sounds! 

Rutland.     These  were  an   infant's  bones — But  hush— 
don't  tell— 
Don't  tell  the  queen — 

An  unborn  infjinl's — may  l)e,  if  't  is  known, 
They  '11  say  I  iiairdcifMl  it — Indeed  I  did  not — 
It  was  the  axe — how  strange  soe'er  't  is  true ! 


HENRY   BROOKE.  289 

Help  me  to  put  them  right,  and  then  they  '11  fly — 
For  tliov  are  light,  and  not  like  mine,  incnuibered 
With  limbs  of  marble,  and  a  heart  of  lead. 

Queen.     Alas!  her  reason  is  disturbed;  her  eyes 
Are  wild  and  absent — Do  you  know  me,  Rutland? 
Do  you  not  know  your  (jueen? 

Rutland.     O  yes,  the  queen ! — 
They  say  you  have  the  power  of  life  and  death — Poor 

queen ! 
They  Hatter  you. — You  can  take  life  away, 
But  can  you  give  it  back?     No,  no,  i^oor  queen! — 
Look  at  these  eyes — they  are  a  widow's  eyes — 
Do  you  know  that? — Perhaps,  indeed,  you'll  say, 
A  widow's  eyes  should  weep,  and  mine  are  dry : 
That 's  not  my  fault;  tears  should  come  from  the  heart, 
And  mine  is  dead — I  feel  it  cold  within  me. 
Cold  as  a  stone. — But  yet  my  brain  is  hot — 

0  fye  upon  this  head,  it  is  stark  naught ! 
Beseech  your  majesty  to  cut  it  off, 

The  bloody  axe  is  ready — say  the  word, 

(For  none  can  cut  off  heads  without  your  leave) 

And  it  is  done — I  humbly  thank  your  highness. 

You  look  a  kind  consent.     I  '11  but  just  in. 

And  say  a  prayer  or  two. 

From  my  youth  upwards  I  still  said  my  prayers 

Before  I  slept,  and  this  is  my  last  sleep. 

Indeed  't  is  not  through  fear,  nor  to  gain  time — 

Not  your  own  soldier  could  meet  death  more  bravely; 

You  shall  be  judge  yourself. — We  must  make  haste; 

1  pray,  be  ready. — If  we  lose  no  time 

I  shall  o'ertake  and  join  him  on  the  way. 

Queen.     Follow  her  close,  allure  her  to  some  chamber 
Of  privacy ;  there  soothe  her  frenzy,  but 
Take  care  she  go  not  forth.    Heaven  grant  I  may  not 
Require  such  aid  myself!  for  sure  I  feel 
A  strange  commotion  here. 


'a'- 


Enter  an  Officer. 

Officer.     May  it  please  your  majesty, 
The  Earl,  as  he  addressed  him  to  the  block, 
Requested  but  the  time  to  write  these  lines; 
And  earnestly  conjured  me  to  deliver  them 
Into  your  royal  hands. 

Queen.     Quick. — What  is  here ! — Just  heaven ! 

Flv,  take  this  signet, 
19 


liliU  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Sto])  execution — i]\  witli  eagle's  wings — 
What  art  tlutii?     Of  this  world? 

.\ottin(/]i(iiii.     11a!     I 'in  discovered — 
Then  ho  it  so. — Your  majesty  may  spare — 

(^Kcvn.     Stop,  stop  her  yell! — Uence  to  some  dungeon, 
lience — 
Deejt  sunk  from  day!    In  horrid  silence  there 
Let  conscience  talk  to  thee,  infix  its  stings; 
Awake  remorse  and  desperate  penitence. 
And  from  the  torments  of  thy  conscious  guilt 
Mav  hell  be  all  thv  refuse! 

Enter  Cecil,  Raleigh,  cf-c. 

Cecil.     Gracious  madam, 
I  grieve  to  say  your  order  came  too  late; 
We  met  the  messenger  on  our  return 
From  seeing  the  Earl  fall. 

Queen.     O  fatal  sound — 
Ye  bloody  pair!  accursed  be  your  ambition, 
For  it  was  cruel. — 

O  Kutland,  sister,  daughter,  fair  forlorn! 
No  more  thy  queen,  or  mistress,  here  I  vow 
To  be  for  ever  wedded  to  thy  griefs — 
A  faithful  i)artner,  numbering  sigh  for  sigh, 
And  tear  for  tear;  till  our  sad  pilgrimage 
Shall  iK'ar  us  where  our  Essex  now  looks  down 
With  pity  on  a  toiling  world,  and  sees 
What  trains  of  real  wretchedness  await 
The  dream  of  power  and  emptiness  of  state. 


STOPFORD  AUGUSTUS   BROOKE. 

(1832 ) 

Stopford  a.  Brooke,  tlie  famous  preacher,  poet,  and  interpreter 
of  English  literature,  was  born  at  Letterkenny,  County  Donegal, 
in  1882.  He  was  educated  at  Kidderminster,  Kingstown,  and 
Trinity  College,  Dublin.  He  was  ordained  in  1857,  and  was  for 
some  time  chaplain  to  the  British  Embassy  at  Berlin.  He  held 
various  preferments  in  the  Church  of  England  up  to  1880,  but  he 
left  it  for  the  Unitarian  body  in  that  year.  His  books  are  numer- 
ous ;  among  the  more  purely  literary  may  be  mentioned  the  '  Life 
of  the  Late  Frederick  D.  Robertson,'  '  Riquet  of  the  Tuft,'  '  Poems,' 
and  the  various  studies  of  literature  which  have  made  him  so 
widely  known  as  a  teacher  of  light  and  leading.  His  volumes  of 
sermons  enjoy  a  wide  circulation.  His  '  Primer  of  English  Litera- 
ture' is  the  standard  book  on  its  subject.  He  has  edited  in  con- 
junction with  T.  W.  Rolleston,  his  son-in-law,  '  A  Treasury  of  Irish 
Poetry,'  published  by  Messrs.  Smith  &  Elder,  Avhich  may  be  taken 
as  a  final  judgment  of  its  subject.  In  1899  he  succeeded  Sir  Charles 
Gavan  Duffy  as  President  of  the  Irish  Literary  Society. 

FREDERICK   WILLIAM    ROBERTSON. 

From  '  Life  and  Letters  of  F.  W.  Robertson.' 

So  lived  and  so  died,  leaving  behind  him  a  great  legacy 
of  thought,  a  noble  gentleman,  a  Christian  minister.  To 
the  tenderness  of  a  true  woman  he  joined  the  strong  will 
and  the  undaunted  courage  of  a  true  man.  With  an  in- 
tellect at  home  in  all  the  intricacies  of  modern  thought,  he 
combined  the  simple  spirit  of  a  faithful  follower  of  Christ. 
To  daring  speculation  he  united  severe  and  practical  labor 
among  men.  Living  above  the  world,  he  did  his  work  in 
the  world.  Ardently  pursuing  after  liberty  of  thought, 
he  never  forgot  the  wise  reticence  of  English  conservatism. 
He  preserved,  amid  a  fashionable  town,  the  old  virtues  of 
chivalry.  In  a  very  lonely  and  much-tried  life  he  was 
never  false  or  fearful.  Dowered  with  great  gifts  of  in- 
tellect, he  was  always  humble;  doAvered  with  tliose  gifts 
of  the  heart  which  are  peculiarly  perilous  to  their  pos- 
sessor, he  never  became  their  slave.  He  lived  troubled  on 
every  side,  yet  not  distressed:  perplexed,  but  not  in  de- 
spair: persecuted,  but  not  forsaken:  cast  down,  but  not 

291 


292  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

destroyed:  ahva^'S  bearing  about  in  the  body  the  dying  of 
the  Lord  Jesus,  that  the  life  also  of  Jesus  might  be  made 
manifest  in  his  body.  He  died,  giving  up  his  spirit  with 
his  last  words,  in  faith  and  resignation  to  his  Father. 

lie  lies  in  a  hollow  of  the  Downs  he  loved  so  well.  The 
sound  of  the  sea  may  be  heard  there  in  the  distance;  and, 
standing  by  his  grave,  it  seems  a  fair  and  fitting  requiem; 
for  if  its  in(iuietude  was  the  inuige  of  his  outward  life,  its 
central  calm  is  the  image  of  his  deep  peace  of  activity  in 
(Un\.  lie  sleeps  well ;  and  we,  who  are  left  alone  with  our 
love  and  his  great  result  of  work,  cannot  but  rejoice  that 
he  has  entered  on  his  Father's  rest. 

Tliere  were  united  around  his  tomb,  by  a  common  sorrow 
and  a  common  love,  Jews,  Unitarians,  Roman  Catholics, 
(Quakers,  and  Churchmen;  the  workingmen,  the  trades- 
men, and  the  rank  and  wealth  of  Brighton.  For  once — 
and  it  was  a  touching  testimony  to  the  reality  of  his  work — 
all  classes  and  all  sects  merged  their  difterences  in  one 
deep  feeling.  .  ,  . 

It  may  be  asked  whether  the  truest  idea  of  what  he  was 
can  be  gathered  from  his  Letters  or  from  his  Sermons. 
The  ])est  reply  is,  that  the  Sermons  picture  what  he  strove 
to  be,  ^^•hat  lie  was  when  he  felt  and  acted  best,  what  he 
would  have  been  had  his  life  been  less  vexed,  his  heart  less 
fiery,  and  his  brain  less  attacked  by  disease.  Of  the  Let- 
ters, some  represent  him  in  his  happiest  and  most  intel- 
lectual moments;  others  in  times  of  physical  weariness, 
when  both  intellect  and  heart  were  pained  with  trouble, 
and  beset  with  questions  too  hard  for  him  to  solve  com- 
pletely; and  a  few,  as  those  written  from  the  Tyrol,  when 
his  wliole  being  was  convulsed  in  the  crisis  of  a  great  re- 
ligious change.  They  relate  his  inward  trials;  his  sermons 
l)car  witness  to  his  contest  and  his  victory.  Only  when 
both  are  read  and  balanced  one  against  the  other,  can  an 
adequate  idea  be  formed  of  what  he  was.  On  account  of 
the  overstrained  self-depreciation  which  sometimes  pos- 
ses.sed  him,  especially  after  the  intellectual  excitement  of 
Sunday,  it  is  not  possil)le  to  take  his  own  estimation  of 
liiriiself  in  his  letters  as  representing  the  whole  truth. 

No  man  ought  to  lie  judged  by  a  record  of  his  own  inner 
life, — no  man  ought  to  be  judged  entirely  out  of  his  own 
moutli.     I'ar  from  being  too  lenient,  men  of  Mr.  Robert- 


STOPFORI)    AUGU^TUR    BROOKE.  293 

son's  temper  are  too  severe  upon  themselves.  They  write 
in  deep  pain,  from  the  impulse  of  the  moment;  and  then, 
when  they  have  j»ot  rid  of  the  pain  by  its  expression,  pass 
out  of  their  study  into  an  out-door  life  of  such  activity 
and  vi^or,  that  no  one  would  imagine  that  an  hour  before 
they  had  been  writing  as  if  they  were  useless  in  their  gen- 
eration, and  their  existence  a  burden  too  galling  to  be 
borne. 

On  reading  his  correspondence,  some  may  accuse  him  of 
indicating  too  strongly  his  loneliness  and  passionate  de- 
sire of  .sympathy;  they  may  call  his  fancies  diseased,  his 
complaints  unmanly,  and  his  transient  doubts  unchristian. 

But  his  faithlessness  was  but  momentary :  only  the  nmn 
who  can  become  at  one  with  Frederick  Robertson's  strange 
and  manifold  character,  and  can  realize  as  he  did  the 
agou}^  and  sin  of  the  world, — only  the  man  who  can  feel 
the  deepest  pain,  and  the  highest  joy,  as  Robertson  could 
have  felt  them, — has  either  the  right  or  the  capability  of 
judging  him.  Doubts  did  pass  across  his  mind,  but  they 
passed  over  it  as  clouds  across  the  sun.  The  glowing 
heart  which  lay  behind  soon  dissipated  them  by  its  vrarmth. 

With  regard  to  his  passionate  desires  and  his  complaint, 
they  were  human,  and  would  have  been  humanly  wrong 
in  him  only  if  he  had  allov\'ed  them  to  gain  predominance 
over  his  will,  righteously  bent  all  through  his  life,  not  on 
their  extinction,  but  on  their  subjugation.  The  untrou- 
bled heart  is  not  the  deepest,  the  stern  heart  not  the  noblest, 
the  heart  which  crushes  all  expression  of  its  pain  not  that 
which  can  produce  the  most  delicate  sympathy,  the  most 
manifold  teaching,  or  speak  so  as  to  give  the  greatest  con- 
solation. Had  not  Robertson  often  suffered,  and  suffered 
so  much  as  to  be  unable  sometimes  not  to  suppress  a  cry, 
his  sermons  would  never  have  been  the  deep  source  of  com- 
fort and  of  inspiration  which  they  have  proved  to  thou- 
sands. The  very  knowledge  that  one  who  worked  out  the 
voyage  of  his  life  so  truly  and  so  firmly,  could  so  suffer  and 
so  declare  his  suffering,  is  calculated  to  console  and 
strengthen  many  who  endure  partially  his  pain  and  lone- 
liness; but  who  have  not,  as  yet,  resisted  so  victoriously; 
whose  temperament  is  morbid,  but  who  have  not,  as  yet, 
subdued  it  to  the  loving  and  healthy  cheerfulness  of  his 
Christian  action. 


!:n(  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Nor  tiiD  those  who  shouhl  thus  accuse  him  ever  have  con- 
ceived what  that  character  is  which  mast  express  itself,  or 
ever  have  realized  that  there  are  times  when  expression  is 
necessary  if  life  is  to  continue.  Such  a  necessity  belongs 
almost  always  to  the  poetic  temperament,  and  appears 
nowhere  so  much  as  in  the  Psalms.  They  are  full  of 
David's  complaints  against  his  destiny.  They  tell  of  his 
long  and  lonely  nights,  his  tears,  his  sufferings  at  the 
hands  of  men,  his  doubts  of  Eternal  Justice;  and  it  is 
througli  the  relief  afforded  by  this  natural  expression  of 
impassioned  feeling  that  he  gains  calm  enough  to  see  into 
**  the  way  of  the  Lord,'"  and  to  close  his  Psalms  of  sorrow 
with  words  of  triumphant  trust.  It  was  just  so  with 
Frederick  Kobertson.  The  expression  of  his  distress 
neither  injured  his  manliness  nor  subtracted  from  his 
Christian  faith.  It  was  the  safetv-valve  bv  which  he  freed 
himself  from  feeling  under  too  high  a  pressure  not  to  be 
dangerous,  and  brought  himself  into  that  balanced  state 
in  which  active  and  profitable  work  is  possible.  One  of 
the  most  important  things  to  remark  in  his  life  is,  that 
a  man  may  retain  high-wrought  sentiment,  passionate  feel- 
ings, imaginations  and  longings  almost  too  transcenden- 
tal, a  .sensitiveness  so  extreme  as  to  separate  him  from 
almost  all  sympathy,  and  at  the  same  time  subdue  all  so 
as  to  do  his  Father's  will  in  the  minutest  as  well  as  the 
largest  duties.  But  I  repeat,  without  the  "timely  utter- 
ance which  gave  his  thoughts  relief,"  he  could  not  have 
l)een  strong  enough  to  do  the  work  of  his  life,  a  work  dis- 
tinctive and  great,  but  the  results  of  wliich  do  not  lie  so 
of)euly  on  the  surface  of  society  as  to  be  manifest  at  once 
to  the  careless  glance  of  the  public.  .  .  . 

The  results  of  his  preaching  upon  the  intellectual  men 
who  attended  his  congregation  have  already  been  dwelt  on. 
On  those  A\hose  tendency  was  towards  skepticism  the  effect 
of  his  scnnons  was  remarkable.  "  I  never  hear  him,"  said 
one,  "  without  some  doubt  being  removed,  or  some  difficulty 
solved."  Young  men  who  had  ])oasted  publicly  of  doubts 
which  were  an  inward  terror  to  them,  could  not  resist  the 
attractive  powei-  of  his  teaching,  and  fled  to  him  to  disclose 
the  history  of  their  hearts,  and  to  fiii'l  symjiathy  and  guid- 
ance. Noi-  was  his  inlluence  less  ui)on  that  large  class 
whose  religion  grows  primarily  out  of  emotion,  for  he 


STOPFORD    AUGUSTUS   BROOKE.  295 

combined  in  himself  two  powers  which  <;enerally  weaken 
one  another, — the  power  of  (•h)se  and  abstract  thinliinj;, 
and  the  i^ower  of  deep  and  intense  feeling. 

As  a  clergyman,  by  his  clear  elucidation  of  the  truths 
common  to  all,  but  lying  beneath  widely  differing  forms  of 
opinion,  he  has  done  much  to  bring  about  a  spirit  of  re- 
ligious union  among  the  various  parties  of  the  Church.  He 
has  assisted,  by  his  teaching,  in  tlie  great  work  of  this  day, 
— the  preservation  of  the  Church  of  England  as  a  church, 
in  which  all  the  members  vary  in  view^s,  mode  of  action, 
and  character  of  teaching,  but  are  one  in  faitli,  one  in  aim, 
and  one  in  spirit;  for  he  dreaded  that  genuine  Low  Church- 
ism  which  seeks  to  force  upon  all  the  members  of  a  church 
a  set  of  limited  opinions  about  illimitable  truths. 

As  a  clergyman  he  has  also  brought  distinctly  forward 
the  duty  of  Fearlessness  in  speaking.  "  I  desire  for  my- 
self," he  says,  "  that  I  may  be  true  and  fearless,  but  still 
more  that  I  may  mix  gentleness  and  love  with  fearless- 
ness." He  was  not  one  who  held  what  are  called  liberal 
opinions  in  the  study,  but  would  not  bring  them  into  the 
pulpit.  He  did  not  weaver  between  truth  to  himself  and 
success  in  the  world.  He  was  offered  advancement  in  the 
Church,  if  he  would  abate  the  strength  of  his  expressions 
with  regard  to  the  Sabbath.  He  refused  the  proffer  with 
sternness.  Far  beyond  all  the  other  perils  which  beset 
the  Church  was,  he  thought,  this  peril :  that  men  who  were 
set  apart  to  speak  the  truth  and  to  live  above  the  world 
should  substitute  conventional  opinions  for  eternal  truths, 
— sliould  prefer  ease  to  conscience,  and  worldly  honor  to 
that  which  cometh  from  God  only. 

He  has  taught  also  bv  his  ministerial  life  the  dutv  and 
the  practice  of  that  Prudence  which  fitly  balances  courage. 
He  was  not  one  of  the  radicals  of  English  polemics.  His 
was  not  that  spirit,  too  much  in  vogue  at  present  among 
the  so-called  Liberal  party, — the  spirit  of  Carlstadt,  and 
not  of  Luther;  the  spirit  of  men  who  blame  their  leaders 
for  not  being  forward  enough,  who  desire  blindly  to  pull 
down  the  whole  edifice  of  "  effete  opinions,"  and  who,  in- 
spired by  the  ardor  and  by  some  of  the  folly  of  youth,  think 
that  they  can  at  once  root  up  the  tares  without  rooting  up 
the  wheat  also.  Robertson,  on  the  contrary,  seems  to  have 
clearly  seen,  or  at  least  to  have  acted  as  if  he  saw,  that  the 


296  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

(luestion  of  true  outward  relijjjious  liberty  in  a  national 
CMiurch  was  to  be  solved  in  the  same  manner  as  England 
bad  solved  the  question  of  solid-set  Political  Liberty, — by 
holdiuii"  on  to  tlie  old  as  lon<i'  as  possible,  so  as  to  retain  all 
its  jiooil ;  by  never  eud>arkiuii  in  the  new  till  it  had  become 
a  necessity  of  the  ajie;  by  "  broadening"  slowly  down  from 
precedent  to  precedent,"  and  by  recognizing  the  universal 
truth  hidden  in  that  saying,  "  I  have  many  things  to  say 
unto  you,  but  ye  cannot  bear  them  now."  He  clung,  for 
example,  to  certain  theories  which  seem  incongruous  with 
the  rest  of  his  views, — wliich  seem  strange  to  many  of  us 
now,  just  because  we  forget  that  England  and  the  (Church 
are  ten  years  older  since  his  death.  He  refused  to  discuss 
thoroughly  questions  which  we  bring  forward  prominently. 
He  purposed,  for  example,  writing  a  book  on  Inspiration. 
He  refrained; — "the  mind  of  England,"  said  he,  "is  not 
ready  yet,"  But  if  he  were  alive  now,  he  would  write  it. 
I  have  already  said  that  he  would  never  bring  forward  in 
the  puli»it  an  opinion  which  was  only  fermenting  in  his 
mind.  He  waited  till  the  must  became  wine.  He  en- 
deavored, as  far  as  in  him  lay,  without  sacrificing  truth, 
not  to  shock  by  startling  opinions  the  minds  of  those  who 
were  resting  peacefully  in  an  "early  heaven  and  in  happy 
views."  He  refrained  in  all  things  from  violating  a  weak 
brother's  conscience.  He  would  have  hated  the  vaunting 
way  with  which  some  put  forward  novel  views.  He  would 
have  hated  the  pharisaical  liberalism  which  says,  "  God,  I 
thank  Thee  I  am  not  as  other  men  are,  even  as  this  believer 
in  the  universality  of  the  Flood,  or  that  in  the  eternal 
obligation  of  the  Jowisli  Sabbath."  He  would  have  dis- 
liked such  a  term  as  "  free-]uin<lling  ";  and  as  strongly  as 
he  rc]»i'ol)ated  the  irrevei-ent  boldness  of  those  who  speak 
as  if  they  were  at  home  in  all  the  counsels  of  God,  would 
he  have  blamed  the  irreverent  license  with  which  some 
writers  have  rushed  at  things  held  sacred  by  thousands  of 
our  fellow-Christians. 

In  one  respect  especially  his  life  has  a  lesson  for  the 
riiiiich  of  this  time.  He  has  shown  that  a  well-marked 
individuality  is  possible  in  the  English  ('hurch.  The  great 
disadvantage  of  a  Church  like  ours, — with  fixed  tradi- 
tions, with  a  fixed  system  of  operation,  Avith  a  theological 
educaticjii  which  is  exceedingly  conservative,  with  a  man- 


8T0PF0RD   AUGUSTUS   BROOK tJ,  297 

ner  of  looking  at  general  subjects  from  a  fixed  clerical 
point  of  view,  with  a  bias  to  shelter  and  encourage  cer- 
tain definite  modes  of  thinking, — is  that  under  its  govern- 
ment clergymen  tend  to  become  all  of  one  pattern.  It 
may  be  said,  and  with  truth,  that  the  advantages  of 
our  system  more  than  balance  this  disadvantage.  Never- 
theless, it  is  a  disadvantage  which  is  becoming  more  and 
more  felt  by  clergymen  and  recognized  by  laymen.  And 
one  of  the  strongest  impulses  which  have  given  rise  to  the 
present  theological  struggle,  is  the  desire  of  men  in  holy 
orders  to  become  more  distinctly  individual.  Robertson 
anticipated  by  some  years  this  deep-set  feeling.  He  was 
himself  and  not  a  fortuitous  concurrence  of  other  men. 
Owing  to  his  individuality,  he  retained  the  freedom  of 
action  and  the  diversity  of  feeling  which  men  not  only  in 
the  Church,  but  in  every  profession  and  business,  so  miser- 
ably lose  when  they  dress  their  minds  in  the  favShion  of 
current  opinion,  and  look  at  the  world,  at  nature,  and 
at  God,  through  the  glass  wdiich  custom  so  assiduously 
smokes. 

Robertson  preserved  his  independence  of  thought.  He 
had  a  strong  idiosyncrasy,  and  he  let  it  loose  within  the 
bounds  of  laAV, — a  law  not  imposed  upon  him  from  with- 
out by  another,  but  freely  chosen  by  himself  as  the  best. 
He  developed,  without  rejecting  the  help  of  others,  his 
own  character  after  his  own  fashion.  He  respected  his 
own  conscience;  believed  in  his  own  native  force,  and  in 
the  divine  fire  within  him.  He  looked  first  at  everything 
submitted  to  his  judgment  as  if  it  were  a  new  thing  upon 
earth,  and  then  permitted  the  judgments  of  the  past  to 
Imve  their  due  weight  with  him.  He  endeavored  to  re- 
ceive, without  the  intervention  of  commentators,  immedi- 
ate impressions  from  the  Bible.  To  these  impressions  he 
added  the  individual  life  of  his  own  heart,  and  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  life  of  the  great  w'orld.  He  preached  these 
impressions,  and  with  a  freedom,  independence,  variety, 
and  influence  which  were  the  legitimate  children  of  his 
individualitv. 

That  men  should,  within  the  necessary  limits,  follow  out 
their  own  character,  and  refuse  to  submit  themselves  to  the 
common  mould,  is  the  foremost  need  of  the  age  in  which  we 
live;  and  if  the  lesson  which  Robertson's  life  teaches  in  this 


208  IRIiSH    LITERATURE. 

respect  can  bo  rccoivod,  if  not  by  all,  at  least  by  his  breth- 
ren, he  will  neither  have  aeted  nor  tanj^ht  in  vain. 

Of  course,  developiuj^-  his  own  thoughts  and  life  freely, 
he  was  eharged  by  his  opponents  with  faithlessness  to  the 
Church,  and  with  latitudinarian  opinions.  But  he  re- 
joiced in  finding  within  the  Church  of  England  room  to 
<'xi>and  his  soul,  and  freedom  for  his  intellect.  He  dis- 
coNcred  the  way  to  escape  from  the  disadvantage  I  have 
mentioned,  and  vet  to  remain  a  true  son  of  a  Church  which 
he  loved  and  honored  to  the  last.  Moreover,  he  brought 
manv  into  the  Church  of  England:  both  Unitarians  and 
()uakers,  as  well  as  men  of  other  sects,  were  admitted  b^' 
him  into  her  communion.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  latter 
part  of  the  accusation  were  true,  and  he  was  latitudinarian 
in  opinion,  it  is  at  least  remarkable  that  he  should  have 
induced  in  those  who  heard  him  profitably,  not  only  a 
spiritual  life,  but  also  a  high  and  punctilious  morality. 
II is  hearers  kept  the  Law  all  the  better  from  being  freed 
from  the  Law.  And  many  a  workingman  in  Brighton, 
many  a  business  man  in  London,  many  a  young  officer, 
many  a  traveler  upon  the  Continent,  many  a  one  living  in 
the  great  world  of  politics  or  in  the  little  world  of  fashion, 
can  trace  back  to  words  heard  in  Trinity  Chapel  the  crea- 
tion in  them  of  a  ]ofti(T  idea  of  moral  action,  and  an 
altiding  influence  which  has  made  their  lives,  in  all  their 
several  spheres,  if  not  religious,  at  least  severely  moral. 

These  are  some  of  the  results  which  have  flowed,  and  will 
continue  to  fh)w,  from  his  work  and  life.  They  have  been 
projiagated  by  means  of  his  published  sermons.  The  ex- 
tension of  these  sermons  among  all  classes  has  been  al- 
most unexami)led.  Other  sermons  have  had  a  larger 
circulation,  but  it  has  been  confined  within  certain  cir- 
cles. These  have  been  read  and  enjoyed  by  men  of  every 
sect  and  of  every  rank.  They  seem  to  come  home  to  that 
liuman  heart  which  lies  beneath  all  our  outward  differ- 
ences. Workingmen  and  women  have  spoken  of  them  to 
me  with  (hdiglit.  Clergymen  of  the  most  opposed  views 
to  his  keej)  them  in  their   bookcases   and   on   their   desks. 

But  fai-  beyond  these  outward  tributes  of  respect,  a 
Tiioie  perennial  one  than  all,  is  the  epistle  written  by 
this  man  of  (iod  u[»fin  our  hearts.  That  which  Cod  had 
given   hiiii,   he  has  left  to  us.     His  s])irit   lives  again  in 


8T0PF0RD    AUGUSTUS   BROOKE.  299 

otbtTs;  his  thoughts  move  many  whom  he  never  saw,  on 
to  noble  ends.  Unconsciously  he  blesses,  and  has  blessed. 
Yet  not  unconsciously  now:  1  rejoice  to  think  that  now, 
at  least,  he  is  freed  from  the  dark  thought  which  op- 
pressed his  life, — that  his  ministry  was  a  failure.  I 
rejoice  to  think  that  he  knows  now — in  that  high  Land 
where  he  is  doing,  with  all  his  own  vividness  of  heart, 
ampler  work  than  his  weary  spirit  could  have  done  on 
earth — that  his  apparent  defeat  here  was  real  Victory; 
that  through  him  the  S])irit  of  all  Goodness  has  made 
men  more  true,  more  loving,  and  more  pure.  His  books 
may  perish,  his  memory  fade,  his  opinions  be  super- 
seded, as,  in  God's  progressive  education  of  the  Univer- 
sal Church,  we  learn  to  see  more  clearly  into  Truths 
Avhose  relations  are  now  ol)scure;  but  the  Work  whicli 
he  has  done  upon  human  hearts  is  as  imperishable  as  his 
own  Immortality  iu  God. 


THE    EARTH    AND    MAN. 

A  little  sun,  a  little  rain, 

A  soft  wind  blowing  from  the  west, 
And  woods  and  fields  are  sweet  again, 

And  warmth  within  the  mountain's  breast. 

So  simple  is  the  earth  we  tread, 

t^o  quick  with  love  and  life  her  frame. 

Ten  thousand  years  have  dawned  and  tied 
And  still  her  magic  is  the  same. 

A  little  love,  a  little  trust, 

A  soft  impulse,  a  sudden  dream, 
And  life  as  dry  as  desert  dust 

Is  fresher  than  a  mountain  stream. 

So  simple  is  the  heart  of  man, 

So  ready  for  new  hope  and  joy ; 
Ten  thousand  years  since  it  began 

Have  loft  it  younger  than  a  boy. 


o 


00  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

A    MOMENT. 

To-day  chanco  drove  me  to  the  wood, 

Where  1  have  walked  and  talked  with  her 

Who  lies  iu  the  earth's  solitude. 
The  soft  west  wind,  the  minister 

Of  Love  and  Spring,  blew  as  of  old 

Across  the  grass  and  marigold. 
And  moved  the  waters  of  the  pool. 
And  moved  my  heart  a  moment — Fool ! 

Do  I  not  know  her  lips  are  cold. 


DESERT    IS    LIFE. 

"  Desert  is  Life,  its  fates  are  flame. 
Far  ofl"  the  foes  we  seek  to  quell; 

Lord,  let  us  pause  awhile — the  march 
In  evening's  dew  were  just  as  well." 

"  Prophet  of  God,"  the  Arabs  cried, 

"The  sun  darts  death  on  heart  and  head; 

Here  rest  till  starlight  night  be  cool  " — 
"  Hell  is  hotter  " — Mohammed  said. 


JOHN    BROUGHAM. 

(1810—1880.) 

This  noted  actor,  theater  manager,  playwright,  poet,  and  story- 
writer,  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1810.  He  made  his  fii'st  appearance 
as  an  actor  in  183U,  and  is  said  to  have  been  the  original  of  Lever's 
'  Harry  Lorrequer.'  In  1843  he  came  to  America,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  a  short  trip  to  England  in  18G0,  he  remained  here 
until  his  death  on  June  7,  1880. 

The  following  lines  to  his  memory  by  H,  C  Bunner  may  fitly 
find  a  place  here  : 

"  The  actor 's  dead,  and  memory  alone 
Recalls  the  genial  magic  of  his  tone  ; 
Marble,  nor  canvas,  nor  the  printed  page 
Shall  tell  his  genius  to  another  age  : 
A  memory,  doomed  to  dwindle  less  and  less, 
His  world-wide  fame  slirinks  to  this  littleness. 
Yet  if,  half  a  century  from  to-day, 
A  tender  smile  about  our  old  lips  play. 
And  if  our  grandchild  query  whence  it  came. 
We  '11  say  :  '  A  thought  of  i3rougham ' — 

And  that  is  Fame  !  " 

We  have,  however,  some  moi'e  enduring  monument  than  the 
memory  of  his  acting,  for,  in  addition  to  over  one  hundred  come- 
dies, fai'ces,  and  burlesques,  he  wrote  'A  Basket  of  Chips,'  'The 
Bunsby  Papers,'  'Life  Stories,  and  Poems.'  Among  his  most  suc- 
cessful plan's  were  'Vanity  Fair,'  'The  Irish  Emigrant,'  and  'The 
Game  of  Love.'  He  collaborated  with  Dion  Boucicault  in  writing 
'London  Assurance.' 


NED    GERAGHTY'S  LUCK. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Brave  old  Ireland  is  tlie  land  of  Fairies,  but  of  all  the 
various  descriptions  there  isn't  one  to  be  compared  with 
the  Leprechaun,  in  the  regard  of  cunning  and  'cute- 
ness.  Now  if  you  don't  know  Avhat  a  Leprechaun  is,  I  '11 
tell  you.  Why,  then — save  us  and  keep  us  from  harm,  for 
they  are  queer  chaps  to  gosther  about — a  Leprechaun  is 
the  fairies'  shoemaker:  and  a  mightv  conceited  little 
fellow  he  is,  I  assure  you,  and  very  mischievous,  except 
where  he  might  happen  to  take  a  liking. 

But,  perhaps,  the  best  wav  to  give  you  an  idea  of  their 

301 


302  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

appearance  and  cliaracteristies,  will  be  to  tell  yon  a  bit 
of  a  story  abont  one. 

Once  npon  a  time,  thon,  many  years  ago,  before  the 
screech  of  the  steam  engine  had  frightened  the  "  good 
peoi)le  "  out  of  their  quiet  nooks  and  corners,  there  lived 
a  rollicking,  good-natured,  rakish  boy,  called  Ned  Ger- 
au'htv;  his  father  was  the  only  miller  in  the  neighbor- 
hood  for  miles  round,  and  being  a  prudent,  saving  kind 
of  an  old  hunk,  was  considered  to  be  amazingly  well  o&, 
and  the  name  of  the  town  they  lived  in  would  knock  all 
the  teeth  out  of  the  upper  jaw  of  an  Englishman  to  pro- 
nounce: it  was  called   Ballinaskerrybaughkilinashaghlin. 

Well,  the  boy,  as  he  grew  u])  to  a  man's  estate,  used  to 
worry  the  old  miller  nearly  out  of  his  seven  senses,  he 
was  such  a  devil-maj^-care  good-for-nothing.  Attend  to 
anything  that  was  said  to  him  he  would  not,  whether 
in  the  way  of  learning  or  of  business.  He  upset  ink- 
bottle  upon  ink-bottle  upon  his  father's  account-books, 
such  as  they  were;  and  at  the  poor  apology  for  a  school, 
which  the  bigotry  of  the  reverend  monopolizers  of  knowl- 
edge permitted  to  exist  in  Ball ,  the  town — he  was  al- 
ways famous  for  studying  less  and  playing  more,  than  any 
boy  of  his  age  in  the  barony. 

It  isn't  to  be  much  wondered  at  then,  that  when,  in 
the  course  of  events,  old  Geraghty  had  tlie  wheat  of  life 
threshed  out  of  him  by  the  Hail  of  unpitying  Time,  Mas- 
ter Ned,  his  careless,  reprobate  son,  was  but  little  fitted 
to  take  his  position  as  the  head-miller  of  the  country. 

But  to  show  you  the  luck  that  runs  after,  and  sticks 
close  to  some  people,  whether  they  care  for  it  or  not,  as 
if,  ]\k(t  love,  it  despiseth  the  too  ardent  seeker. 

Did  you  ever  take  notice,  that  two  men  might  be  fish- 
ing together  at  the  same  spot,  with  the  same  sort  of 
tackle  and  the  same  sort  of  bait?  One  will  get  a  bushel 
full  before  the  other  gets  a  bite — that's  luck, — not  that 
tliere 's  any  certainty  about  it;  for  the  two  anglers  miglit 
change  places  to-moi-i-o\v.  Ah  I  it's  an  uncomfortable,  de- 
reiving,  self-confidence-destroying,  Jack-o'-lantern  sort  of 
thing  is  that  same  luck,  and  yet,  how  many  people,  espe- 
cially our  countrymen,  cram  their  hands  into  their  pock- 
ets, and  fully  expect  fliat  the  cheating  devil  will  filter 
gold  through  their  fingers. 


JOII\    J :  ROUGH  AM.  3o;j 

But,  tiood  pooplo,  listPii  to  iiio,  tako  a  frioiifl's  advice 
don't  trust  her,  and  of  this  be  assured,  although  a  lump 
of  luck  Hia.v,  now  aud  then — and  nii^lity  rarely  at  that — 
exhibit  itself  at  your  very  foot,  yet  to  find  a  good  vein  of 
it  you  must  dig  laboriously,  unceasingly.  Indolent  hu- 
manity, to  hide  its  own  laziness,  calls  those  lucky  men, 
who,  if  you  investigate  the  matter  closely,  you  '11  find 
have  been   simply   indui^trioiis  ones. 

But  to  return  to  the  particular  luck  which  laid  hold 
of  Ned  Geraghty,  everybod}^  thought,  and  everybody  of 
course,  the  A\'orst,  and  that  Ned  the  rover  would  soon 
make  ducks  and  drakes  of  the  old  man's  money;  that 
the  mill  might  as  well  be  shut  up  now,  for  there  was  no- 
body to  see  after  it:  every  gossip,  male  and  female,  had 
his  or  her  peculiar  prognostic  of  evil.  Sage  old  men 
shook  their  heads,  grave  old  matrons  shrugged  their 
shoulders,  while  the  unanimous  opinion  of  the  marriage- 
able part  of  the  feminine  community  was,  tliat  nothing 
could  possibly  avert  the  coming  fatality,  except  a  careful 
wife. 

Now,  candor  compels  the  historian  to  say,  that  the 
mill-hoppers  did  not  go  so  regularly  as  they  did  for- 
merly; and,  moreover,  that  Ned,  being  blessed  with  a  per- 
sonal exterior,  began  to  take  infinite  pains  in  its  adorn- 
ment. Finer  white  cords  aud  tops  could  not  be  sported 
by  any  squireen  in  the  parish;  his  green  coat  was  made 
of  the  best  broadcloth,  an  intensely  bright  red  Indian 
handkerchief  was  tied  openly  round  his  neck,  a  real  beaver 
hat  on  his  impudent  head,  and  a  heavy  thong-whip  in 
his  hand,  for  he  had  just  joined  modestly  in  the  Bally, 
etc.,  etc.,  hunt. 

This  was  the  elegant  rpparition  that  astonished  the 
sober  and  sensible  town  folk,  a  very  few  months  after  the 
decease  of  the  miserlv  old  miller,  and  of  course  all  the 
evil  forebodings  of  the  envious  and  malicious  were  in  a 
fair  way  to  be  speedily  consummated,  when  my  bold  Ned 
met  the  piece  of  luck  that  changed  the  current  of  his 
life,  and  gave  the  lie  to  those  neighborly  and  charitable 
prognostics. 

It  was  on  one  fine  moonlight  night  that  Ned  was  walk- 
ing homeward  by  a  sliort  cut  across  the  fields,  for  his 
sorry  old  piece  of  horse-llosh  had  broken  down  in  that 


a()4  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

day's  hunt,  and  for  many  a  weary  niilo  bo  had  hocn  foot- 
in«r  it  throujih  boji'  and  brier,  until,  Avitli  fatigue  and 
mortiticatiou,  he  felt  both  heart-«iek  and  limb-weary, 
when  all  at  once  his  quick  ear  caught  the  sound  of  the 
smallest  kind  of  a  voice,  so  low,  and  yet  so  musical,  sing- 
ing a  very  little  ditty  to  the  accompaniment  of  tiny 
taps  u])on  a  diminutive  lap-stone.  Ned's  heart  gave  one 
great  bound,  his  throat  swelled,  and  his  hair  stuck  into 
his  head  like  needles. 

"  ^lav  I  never  eat  another  dav's  vittals,  if  it  ain't  a 
Leprechaun,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  and  the  little  villain 
is  so  busv  with  his  singing  that  he  didn't  hear  me  com- 
ing;  if  I  could  only  catch  a-howlt  of  him,  my  fortune's 
made." 

^Vitll  that,  lie  stole  softly  towards  the  place  from 
whence  the  sounds  proceeded,  and  peeping  slyly  over  a 
short  clump  of  blackthorn,  there,  sure  enough,  he  saw  a 
comical  little  figure  not  more  than  an  inch  and  a  half  high, 
dressed  in  an  old  fashioned  suit  of  velvet,  with  a  cocked 
hat  on  his  head,  and  a  sword  by  his  side,  as  grand  as  a 
prime  minister,  hammering  at  a  morsel  of  fairies'  sole- 
leather,  and  singing  awa^^  like  a  cricket  that  had  received 
a  musical  education. 

"  Now 's  my  chance,"  said  Ned,  as,  quick  as  thought, 
he  droj)ped  his  hat  right  over  the  little  vagabond.  "  Ha! 
ha  I  you  murtlicrin  scliemer,  I've  got  you  tight,"  he  cried, 
as  he  crushed  his  hat  together,  completely  imprisoning  the 
Leprechaun. 

"  Let  me  out,  Ned  Geraghty;  you  see  I  know  who  you 
are,"  scjualled  the  little  chap. 

"  The  devil  a  toe,"  says  Ned,  and  away  he  scampered 
towards  home  with  his  prize,  highly  elated,  for  he  knew 
that  the  Leprechauns  were  the  guardians  of  all  hidden 
treasure,  and  he  was  determined  not  to  suffer  him  to  es- 
cape until  he  had  pointed  out  where  he  could  discover  a 
j)ot  of  gold. 

When  Scd  had  reach(Ml  home,  the  first  thing  he  did 
was  to  get  a  hammer  and  some  nails,  and  having  placed 
his  hat  upon  the  table  fastened  it  securely  by  the  brim, 
the  little  fellow  screeching  and  yelling  like  mad. 

"  Now,  my  boy,  I  've  got  you  safe  and  snug,"  says  Ned, 


JOF.V    BROUGHAM.  305 

as  he  sat  down  iu  his  chair  to  have  a  i)arley  with  his  pris- 
oner. 

"  There  -s  no  use  in  kickino;  up  such  a  hulhibuHoo — tell 
me  where  I  can  find  a  treasure,  and  I  '11  let  you  go." 

"  I  won't,  jou  swago;erinnj  blackguard,  you  stuck  up 
lump  of  conceit,  you  good  for  nothing  end  of  the  devil's 
bad  bargain,  I  won't;"  and  then  the  angry  liUIc  creature 
let  fly  a  shower  of  abuse  that  gave  Ned  an  indifferent 
opinion  of  fairy  gentility. 

"  Well,  just  as  you  please,"  says  he;  "  it 's  there  you  '11 
stay  till  you  do,"  and  with  that  Ned  makes  himself  a  fine, 
stiff  tumbler  of  whisky-punch,  just  to  show  his  indepen- 
dence. 

"  Ned,"  said  the  little  schemer,  when  he  smelt  the  odor 
of  the  spirits,  "  but  that 's  potteen." 

"  It 's  that  same  it  is,"  says  Ned. 

"Ah!  ye  rebel!  ain't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  to  chate 
the  ganger?  Murther  alive!  how  well  it  smells,"  chirps 
the  cunning  rascal,  snuffing  like  a  kitten  with  a  cold  in 
his  head. 

"It  tastes  better,  avic/'  says  Ned,  taking  a  long  gulp, 
and  then  smacking  his  lips  like  a  post-boy's  whip. 

"  Arrah,  don't  be  grciygiii  ^  a  poor  devil  that  way,"  says 
the  Leprechaun,  "  and  me  as  dry  as  a  lime-burner's  wig." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know,  then?  " 

"  I  can't,  really  I  can't,"  says  the  fairy,  but  with  a 
pleasanter  tone  of  voice. 

"  He  's  coming  round,"  thought  Ned  to  himself,  and  as 
with  a  view  of  propitiating  him  still  further, 

"  Here 's  your  health,  old  chap,"  says  he,  "and  it 's 
sorry  I  am  to  be  obliged  to  appear  so  conthrary,  for  may 
this  choke  me  alive  if  I  wish  you  any  harm  in  the  world." 

"  I  know  you  don't,  Ned^  allana/^  says  the  other,  as 
sweet  as  possible ;  "  but  there  's  one  thing  I  'd  like  j^ou  to 
do  for  me." 

"  And  what  might  that  be?  " 

"  Just  give  us  the  least  taste  in  life  of  that  elegant 
punch,  for  the  steam  of  it 's  gettin'  under  the  crevices,  an' 
I  declare  to  my  gracious  it's  fairlj^  killin'  me  with  the 
drouth." 

"  iVabocA7is/i,"2  cried  Ned,  *' I 'm  not  such  a  fool;  how 
am  I  to  get  it  at  you?  " 

1  Greiggin,  make  one  long.        -  Nabocklish,  never  mind. 
20 


30G  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

'*  Aisy  oiKMicii ;  just  slick  a  ]>in-liole  in  tlie  hat,  and  gi' 
iiM'  one  of  llu'  hairs  of  your  hoad  for  a  straw." 

'•  Kedad,  1  don't  thinlc  that  would  Avaste  much  o'  the 
litjuor,"  says  Ned,  hiuuhiuti-  at  the  contrivance;  "but  if 
it  woukl  do  vou  any  nood,  here  i^oes." 

So  Ned  did  as  the  Leprechaun  desired,  and  the  little 
scoundrel  bi\uan  to  suck  away  at  the  punch  like  an  alder- 
man, and  by  the  same  token  the  effect  it  had  on  him  was 
curious :  at  first  he  talked  miiiht}'  sensibly,  then  he 
talked  mighty  lively,  then  he  suni^'  all  the  songs  he  ever 
knew;  then  he  told  a  lot  of  stories  as  old  as  Adam,  and 
lauiihed  like  the  mischief  at  them  himself;  then  he  made 
speeches,  tlien  lie  roared,  then  he  cried,  and  at  last,  after 
having  indulged  in 

"  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o'  malt," 

down  he  fell  on  the  table  with  a  thump  as  though  a  small- 
sized  potato  had  fallen  on  the  floor. 

"  Oh !  may  I  never  see  glory,"  roared  Ned,  in  an  explo- 
sion of  laughter,  "  if  the  little  rufitian  ain't  as  drunk  as  a 
piper." 

'*  Hal  Ned,  Ned,  you  unfeelin'  reprobate  an'  bad  Chris- 
tian; have  you  no  compassion  at  all,  at  all?"  squeaked 
the  Leprechaun  in  druidcen  but  most  miserable  accents. 

"  Oh  I — oh  I — oh  !  "  the  poor  little  creature  groaned,  like 
a  dying  tadpole. 

''  \\hc\t  's  the  matter?  "  says  Ned,  with  real  concern. 
"  Is  there  anvtliing  I  can  do  for  you?  " 

"Air!  air  I"  grunted  the  Leprechaun. 

"The  fellow's  dead  drunk,"  thought  Ned,  "so  there'll 
be  no  harm  in  lettin'  him  have  a  mouthful  of  fresh  air;" 
so  he  ripped  up  two  or  three  of  the  nails,  when,  with  a 
merry  little  laugh,  the  cunning  vagabond  slid  through 
his  fingers,  and  disappeared  like  a  curl  of  smoke  out  of 
a  pipe, 

'^  Mufilicn  then,  may  bad  luck  be  to  you,  for  a  deludin' 
discijile.  but  you  've  taken  the  conceit  out  o'  me  in  beau- 
tiful style,"  cried  Ned,  as  he  threw  himself  into  his  chair, 
laughing  heartily,  however,  in  spite  of  his  disappoint- 
ment, at  the  clever  way  the  little  villain  had  effected  his 
release. 


JOH^^    BROUdHAM.  307 

"  What  a  fool  I  was  to  be  taken  in  by  the  dirty  mounte- 
bank." 

"  No,  you  arci  not,"  said  the  voice,  just  above  his  lu^ad. 

Ned  started  with  surprise,  and  looked  eaj^erly  round. 

"  There  's  no  use  in  searching,  my  boy;  I  've  got  my  lib- 
erty, and  I  'm  now  invisible,"  said  the  voice,  "  but  your 
lettin'  me  out  was  a  proof  that  you  have  a  good  heart, 
Ned,  and  I  'm  bound  to  do  you  a  good  turn  for  it." 

"  ^Yhy,  then,  yer  a  gentleman  ivery  inch  of  ye,  though 
it 's  only  one  an'  a  bit,"  cried  Ned,  jumping  up  with  de- 
light; "  what  are  ye  goin'  to  gi'  me?  a  treasure!  " 

"  No,  better  than  that,"  said  the  voice. 

"What  then?" 

"  A  warning." 

What  the  warning  was  we  shall  see  in  the  next  chap- 
ter. 

CHAPTER  II. 

"What  the  mischief  is  the  matter  wid  me  at  all,  at 
all?"  said  Ned;  "sure  don't  I  know  every  foot  of  the 
ground  between  tliis  and  the  next  place,  wherever  it  is? 
but  bad  luck  attend  the  bit  of  mc  knows  where  I  'm 
stan'in'  now. 

"  Howsomever,  I  can't  stand  here  all  night,  so  here 
goes  for  a  bowld  push,  somewhere  or  another." 

With  that,  my  bold  Ned  struck  at  random  through 
the  fields  in  one  direction,  hoi)ing  to  find  some  well- 
known  landmark  which  might  satisfy  him  as  to  his 
whereabout,  but  all  in  vain;  the  whole  face  of  the  coun- 
try was  changed;  where  he  expected  to  meet  with  trees, 
he  encountered  a  barren  waste;  in  the  situation  where  he 
expected  to  find  some  princely  habitation,  he  met  with 
nothing  but  rocks — he  never  was  so  puzzled  in  his  life. 

In  the  midst  of  his  perplexity,  he  sat  down  upon  a 
mound  of  earth,  and  scratching  his  head,  began  seriously 
to  ponder  upon  his  situation. 

"  I  '11  take  my  Bible  oath  I  was  on  my  track  before  I 
met  with  that  devil  of  a  Leprechaun,"  said  he,  and  then 
the  thought  took  possession  of  him,  tliat  the  deceitful 
fairy  had  bewitched  the  road,  so  that  he  might  wander 
away,  and  perhaps  lose  himself  amongst  the  wild  and 
terrible  bogs. 


30S  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

He  was  just  jiiviii^'  way  to  an  extroinity  of  terror, 
wheu,  upon  raising  his  eyes,  what  was  his  astonishment 
to  tind  that  the  locality  which,  before  he  sat  down,  he 
could  have  sworn  was  notliini::  but  a  strange  and  inhos- 
j)itable  waste,  was  blooming  like  a  garden;  and  what's 
more,  he  discovered,  upon  rubbing  his  eyes,  to  make  sure 
that  he  was  not  deceived,  it  was  his  own  garden,  his  back 
rested  against  the  wall  of  his  own  house;  nay,  the  very 
seat  beneath  him,  instead  of  an  earthy  knoll,  was  the 
good  substantial   form  that  graced  his  little  door-porch. 

"  Well,"  cries  Ned,  very  much  relieved  at  finding  him- 
self so  suddenly  at  home,  ''  if  that  don't  beat  the  bees, 
I  'm  a  heathen;  maj'  I  never  leave  this  spot  alive  if  I  know 
how  I  got  here  no  more  nor  the  man  in  the  moon;  here 
goes  for  an  air  o'  the  fire,  any  way,  I  'm  starved  intensely 
wid  the  cowld.'' 

Upon  that  he  started  to  go  in,  when  he  found  that  he 
had  made  another  mistake;  it  wasn't  the  house  he  was 
close  to,  but  the  mill. 

"Why,  what  a  murthorin'  fool  I  am  this  night;  sure 
it's  the  mill  that  I  'm  forninst,  and  not  the  house,"  said 
he.  "Never  mind,  it's  lucky  I  am,  to  be  so  near  home, 
any  way;  there  it  is,  just  across  the  paddock";  so  say- 
ing, he  proceeded  towards  the  little  stile  which  separated 
the  small  field  from  the  road,  inly  wondering  as  he  went 
along,  whether  it  was  the  Leprechaun  or  the  whisky  that 
had  so  confused  his  proceedings. 

"It's  miglity  im])iu(lent  that  I've  been  in  my 
drinkin',"  thought  he,  "  for  if  I  had  drunk  a  trifle  less, 
the  country  wouldn't  be  playin'  such  ingenious  capers 
wid  my  eyesight,  and  if  I  had  drunk  a  trifle  more,  I 
might  a  hunted  up  a  soft  stone  by  way  of  a  pillow,  and 
made  my  bed  in  the  road." 

Arrived  at  the  stile,  a  regular  phenomenon  occurred, 
which  bothered  him  more  and  more — he  couldn't  get 
across  it,  notwithstanding  the  most  strenuous  exertion; 
wh(m  he  went  to  step  over,  the  rail  sprang  up  to  his  head, 
and  when  taking  advantage  of  the  opening  he  had  to 
duf'k  under  he  found  it  close  to  the  ground. 

The  moon  now  popped  beliind  a  dense,  black  cloud 
and  Budden  darkness  fell  n])()n  the  place,  while  at  the 
same  moment  the  slow,  rusty  old  village  clock  gave  two 


JOHN    BROUailAM.  309 

or  three  premonitory  croaks,  and  then  banged  out  the 
hour  of  midnight. 

Twelve  o'clock  at  night  is,  to  the  superstitious,  the 
most  terror-fraught  moment  the  fearful  earth  can  shud- 
der at,  and  Ned  was  strongly  imbued  with  the  dread  of 
ghostly  things;  at  every  bang  of  the  deep-toned  old  chron- 
icler, he  quivered  to  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones;  his 
teeth  chattered,  and  his  flesh  rose  up  into  little  hillocks. 

There  he  was,  bound  by  some  infernal  power.  The  con- 
trary stile  l)anied  all  his  efforts  to  pass  it :  the  last  reverber- 
ation of  the  cracked  bell  ceascvl  with  a  fearful  jar,  like 
the  passing  of  a  sinner's  soul  in  agony,  and  to  it  suc- 
ceeded a  silence  yet  more  terrible. 

"  Maybe  it 's  dyin'  that  I  am,"  thought  Ned ;  and  all 
that  was  lovely  and  clinging  in  God's  beautiful  world, 
rushed  across  his  mind  at  the  instant. 

"  If  it  is  to  be  mv  fate  to  leave  it  all,  so  full  of  life 
and  hope,  and  yet  so  unmindful  of  the  great  blessings  I 
have  unthankfully  enjoyed,  heaven  pity  me,  indeed,  for 
I  'm  not  fit  to  go."  At  this  inoment  his  ear  caught  a 
most  familiar  sound,  that  of  the  mill  hopper,  so  seldom 
heard  lately,  rising  and  falling  in  regular  succession. 

Surprised  still  more  than  ever,  he  turned  round  and 
beheld  the  old  mill,  brilliantly  lighted  up;  streams  of 
brightness  poured  from  every  window,  door,  and  cranny, 
while  the  atmosphere  resounded  with  the  peculiar  busy 
hum  which  proceeds  from  an  industriously  employed  mul- 
titude. 

Fear  gave  place  to  curiosity,  and  Ned  stealthily  crept 
towards  the  mill  opening,  and  looked  in;  the  interior  was 
all  a-blaze  with  an  infinity  of  lights,  while  myriads  of 
diminutive  figures  were  employed  in  the  various  occu- 
pations incidental  to  the  business.  Ned  looked  on  with 
wonder  and  admiration  to  see  the  celerity  and  precision 
with  which  everything  was  done;  great  as  was  the  multi- 
tude employed,  all  was  order  and  regularity;  here  thou- 
sands of  little  atomies  pushed  along  sack  after  sack  of  corn 
— there,  numberless  creatures  ground  and  deposited  the 
flour  in  marked  bags,  while  Ned  recognized  liis  old  friend, 
the  Leprechaun,  poring  over  a  large  account-book,  every 
now  and  then  reckoning  up  a  vast  amount  of  bank  bills 
and  dazzling  gold  pieces. 


o 


10  IRISH    LITERATURE. 


Nod's  mouth  fairly  watered  as  he  saw  the  shininp;  metal, 
aud  he  heard  the  crisp  ereasinp;  of  the  new  bauk  notes 
which  took  the  little  accountant  ever  so  long  to  smooth 
out,  for  each  one  would  have  made  a  blanket  for  him;  as 
soon  as  the  Leprechaun  had  settled  his  book  affairs  to  his 
satisfaction,  he  after  the  jireatest  amount  of  exertion,  as- 
sisted by  a  few  liundred  of  his  tiny  associates,  deposited 
the  money  in  a  tin  case,  whereupon  Ned  distinctly  read 
his  name. 

While  he  was  hesitatinii-  what  course  to  adopt,  whether 
to  try  and  capture  the  Lei)rechaun  acjain,  or  wait  to  see 
what  would  eventuate,  he  felt  himself  pinched  on  the  ear, 
and  on  turniiiii'  round,  he  perceived  one  of  the  fairy  millers 
sian<lini'-  on  his  shoulder,  grinning  impudently  in  his  face. 

"  Ilow  do  you  do,  sir?  "  says  Ned,  very  respectfully,  for 
he  knew  the  power  of  the  little  rascals  too  well  to  offend 
them. 

"  The  same  to  you,  Ned  Geraghty,  the  sporting  miller," 
savs  the  fairv.     "  Haven't  we  done  your  work  well?  " 

"Indeed,  an'  it's  that  you  have,  sir,"  replied  Ned; 
"  much  ol)leeged  to  you,  I  am,  all  round." 

••  \Von't  you  go  in  and  take  your  money?  "  says  the 
fairy. 

'*  Would  it  be  entirely  convenient?  "  said  Ned,  quietly, 
although  his  heart  leaped  like  a  salmon. 

"  It 's  yours,  every  rap,  so  in  an'  lay  a-howld  ov  it,"  said 
the  other,  stretching  \i\)  at  his  ear. 

"  They  wouldn't  l-e  again'  me  havin'  it  inside,  would 
they?"  iufpiired  Ned. 

"  The  money  that  you  have  earned  yourself,  we  can't 
keep  from  you,"  said  the  fairy, 

"That's  true  enough,  and  sure  if  t  didn't  exactly  earn 
it  mys(df,  it  was  earned  in  my  mill,  and  that's  all  the 
same";  and  so,  quieting  his  scruph^s  by  that  consoling 
thought,  Ned  ])ut  on  a  bold  front,  and  walked  in  to  take 
])Ossession  of  the  tin  case,  in  which  he  had  seen  such  an 
amount  of  treasure  deposited.  There  was  not  a  sound 
as  he  entered — not  a  movement  as  he  walked  over  to  the 
case;  but  as  lie  stoo])ed  down  and  found  that  he  could  no 
more  lift  that  box  from  the  ground  tlian  he  could  have 
toi'i!  a  tough  old  oak  U])  by  tlie  loots,  there  ai'osc  such  a 
wild,  musical,  Imt  (h'lisive  laugh  from  the  millions  of  fairy 


jou\  liitouanAM.  311 

throats,  that  Ned  sank  down  npon  the  coveted  treasure, 
perplexed  and  abashed;  for  one  instant  he  hehl  (h)\vn  his 
head  witli  shame,  but  sunnnoninj;'  up  courage,  he  deter- 
mined to  know  the  worst,  when,  as  he  raised  his  eyes,  an 
appal lin<»'  scene  had  taken  place. 

The  fairies  had  vanished,  and  instead  of  the  joyous  mul- 
titude tlittinj;"  lil<<'  motes  in  the  sunbeam,  he  belield  one  *i\- 
♦•antic  head  which  rilled  the  entire  space;  where  tlu^  win- 
dows had  been  a  pair  of  huge  eyes  winked  and  glowered 
upon  him ;  the  great  beam  became  a  vast  nose,  the  joists 
twisted  themselves  into  horrid  matted  hair,  while  the  two 
hoppers  formed  the  enormous  lips  of  a  cavernous  mouth. 
As  he  looked  spell-bound  upon  those  terrible  features  the 
tremendous  lips  o])ened,  and  a  voice  like  the  roar  of  a  cat- 
aract when  you  stop  3'our  ears  and  open  them  suddenly, 
burst  from  the  aperture. 

The  sound  was  deafening,  yet  Ned  distinguished  every 
syllable. 

"  Ain't  you  afraid  to  venture  here? "  bellowed  the 
voice. 

"  For  what,  your  honor?  "  stammered  out  Ned,  more 
dead  than  alive. 

"  For  weeks  and  weeks  not  a  morsel  has  entered  these 
stony  jaws,  and  A^hose  fault  is  it?  yours!"  thundered  the 
awful  shape;  "  you  have  neglected  us,  let  us  starve  and  rot 
piecemeal;  but  we  shall  not  suffer  alone — you,  you!  must 
share  in  our  ruin." 

At  these  words  a  pair  of  long,  joist-like  arms  thrust 
themselves  forth,  and  getting  behind  Ned,  swept  him  into 
the  space  between  the  enormous  hoppers — the  ponderous 
jaws  opened  wide — in  another  instant  he  would  have  been 
crushed  to  atoms.  But  the  instinct  of  self-preservation 
caused  him  to  spring  forward,  he  knew  not  where;  by  a 
fortunate  chance  he  just  happened  to  leap  through  the 
door,  alighting  with  great  force  on  his  head;  for  a  long 
time,  how  long  he  could  not  tell,  he  lay  stunned  by  the  fall ; 
and,  indeed,  while  he  was  in  a  state  of  insensibility,  one  of 
his  neighbors  carried  him  home,  for  he  remembered  no 
more  until  he  found  himself  in  bed,  with  a  bad  bruise 
outside  of  his  head,  and  worse  ache  within. 

As  soon  as  he  could  collect  his  senses,  the  scene  of  the 
past  night  arose  vividly  to  his  mind. 


312  IRISIH    LITERATURE. 

"  It  is  the  Loprechaiin's  waniinji:,"  said  be,  "  and  it 's 
true  he  said  it  was  better  far  thau  gobl,  for  uow  1  see  the 
error  of  my  ways,  and  more  betokeu,  it 's  mend  that  1  will, 
and  a  blessin'  upon  my  endayvors." 

It  is  but  fair  to  Ned  to  sav  that  he  became  a  different 
man;  j^ave  u])  all  his  tine  companions  and  evil  courses, 
and  stuck  diliiiently  to  his  mill,  so  that  in  process  of  time 
he  lived  to  see  well-filled  the  very  tin  case  that  the 
Leprechaun  showed  him  in  tlic  Learning. 


FRANCES   BROWNE. 

(1816—1879.) 

Miss  Browne,  like  Helen  Keller  in  our  day,  was  a  remarkable  ex- 
ample of  the  victories  which  perseverance  and  strength  of  will  can 
achieve  over  great  physical  and  social  obstacles.  Born  in  Stranor- 
lar,  County  Donegal,  Jan.  16,  1816,  an  attack  of  smallpo-x  deprived 
her  of  eyesight  in  infancy,  but  as  she  grew  up  she  managed  to 
teach  herself  and  to  get  others  to  instruct  her,  and  at  an  early  age 
she  had  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  chief  masters  of  English 
literature. 

She  was  compelled  to  earn  her  own  living  and  began  by  sending 
a  poem  to  The  Irish  Penny  Journal,  which  was  accepted.  She  next 
succeeded  in  obtaining  admission  to  The  Athenceum,  Hood's  Maga- 
zine, The  Keepsake,  and  other  periodicals.  The  editor  of  the  first- 
named  was  a  warm  friend  to  the  struggling  young  poetess,  and  did 
much  to  call  public  attention  to  her  work.  In  1844  she  issued  a  col- 
lection of  her  poems,  under  the  title  '  The  Star  of  Atteghei,  the 
Vision  of  Schwartz,  and  other  Poems.' 

Miss  Browne  left  Ireland  in  1847,  and  made  her  home  either  in 
Edinburgh  or  in  London.  Besides  the  books  mentioned  above,  she 
also  published  '  Lyrics  and  Miscellaneous  Poems,' '  Legends  of  Ulster,' 
'  The  Ericsons,'  a  tale  ;  '  The  Hidden  Sin,'  a  novel  (1866)  ;  and  a  sort 
of  autobiography,  entitled  '  My  Share  in  the  World '  (1862).  She  en- 
joyed a  small  pension  from  the  civil  list  bestowed  upon  her  by  Sir 
Robert  Peel.  The  poems  of  Miss  Browne  deserve  attention  al- 
together apart  from  the  personal  circumstances  of  the  authoress. 
She  died  in  London,  Aug.  25,  1879. 

It  is  curious  that  no  reference  is  made  in  any  of  her  biographies 
to  the  one  book  by  Frances  Browne  which  has  endeared  her  to 
thousands  of  children  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  '  Granny's 
Wonderful  Chair,  and  the  Stories  it  Told  '  was  published  in  London 
in  1856,  and  two  editions  were  rapidly  exhausted.  It  remained  out 
of  print  until  1880.  In  the  mean  time,  a  curious  circumstance  hap- 
pened. In  1877  Mrs.  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett  began  in  St.  Nicho- 
las '  The  Story  of  Prince  Fairy  Foot,'  under  the  general  title  of 
'  Stories  from  the  Lost  Fairy  Book,  Retold  by  the  Child  Who  Read 
Them.'  It  was  at  once  discovered  that  the  ' Lost  Fairy  Book'  was 
none  other  than  the  book  in  question. 

In  1880  it  was  reprinted  in  a  cheaper  form  with  the  original  illus- 
trations by  Kenny  Meadows,  and  at  once  took  on  a  new  lease  of  life. 
New  editions  were  called  for  yearly  until  1891,  when  a  splendid  edi- 
tion, with  colored  pictures  drawn  by  Mrs.  Seymour  Lucas,  Avas  pub- 
lished and  had  an  enormous  sale  both  in  England  and  in  the  United 
States,  where  it  had  already  become  known. 

In  1901  an  edition  of  the  book  Avas  prepared  for  use  as  a  supple- 
mentary reading-book  in  the  schools  of  the  United  States,  and  it  has 
been  adopted  in  nearly  all  of  the  larger  States  in  the  Union.     One  of 

313 


o 


14  IRISn    LITERATURE. 


the  foremost  educational  authorities  says  of  the  stories  contained  in 
it  :  "  They  are,  though  set  in  an  atmosphere  of  the  wonderful,  full 
of  liappenings  -which  are  always  real  and  possible  ;  the  characters 
are  concrete  and  natural,  ami  the  incidents  are  related  in  a  most 
pleasing  style  which  cliildren  may  with  advantage  incorporate  into 
their  own  expressions." 

TUE  STORY  OF  CHILDE  CHARITY. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  in  tlie  west  country  a  little 
uirl  who  had  neitlier  father  nor  mother;  they  both  died 
A\  hen  she  was  very  yoimi;,  and  left  their  daughter  to  the 
care  of  an  uncle,  wlio  was  the  richest  farmer  in  all  that 
coimtry.  He  had  houses  and  lauds,  tlocks  and  herds, 
numy  servants  to  work  about  his  house  and  fields,  a  wife 
who  had  brought  him  a  great  dowry,  and  two  fair  daugh- 
ters. 

All  their  neighbors,  being  poor,  looked  up  to  them — inso- 
much tliMt  they  imagined  themselves  great  people.  The 
fatlier  and  motluT  were  as  proud  as  peacocks;  the  daugh- 
ters thought  themselves  the  greatest  beauties  in  the  world, 
and  not  one  of  the  family  would  speak  civilly  to  anybody 
they  thought  beneath  them. 

Now  it  ha]>pencd  that  though  she  was  their  near  rela- 
tion, they  had  tliis  opinion  of  the  orphan  girl,  partly  be- 
cause she  had  no  fortune  and  partly  because  of  her  hum- 
ble, kindly  (lisj)osition.  It  was  said  that  the  more  needy 
and  despised  any  creature  was,  the  more  ready  was  she 
to  l»efriend  it:  on  which  account  the  ]>eople  of  the  west 
country  called  her  Childe  Charitj^;  and  if  she  had  any 
other  name,  J  never  heard  it. 

Childe  Cliarity  was  thought  very  little  of  in  that  proud 
house.  Her  uncle  would  not  own  her  for  his  niece;  her 
cousins  would  not  keep  her  company;  and  her  aunt  sent 
her  to  work  in  the  dairy,  and  to  sleep  in  the  l)ack  garret, 
wliere  llicy  ke])t  all  sorts  of  lumber  and  dry  herbs  for  the 
wi liter.  Tlie  servants  learned  the  same  tune,  and  Childe 
Chnrity  had  more  Avork  than  rest  among  them.  All  the 
day  she  scoured  pails,  scrubbed  dishes,  and  washed  crock- 
ery ware;  but  every  night  she  sle])t  in  the  back  garret  as 
sound  jis  a  jtrinccss  conld  in  her  ]);»lace  chamber. 

IIci-  nm  l<''s  house  was  Jiirgc  jind  wliitc,  and  stood  among 
green  mcndows  by  a  river's  side.     In  front  it  had  a  i^orch 


•J.iAHD  JUlH3ai/!OW  3Hr 


THE  WONDERFUL  CHAIR 

From  a  drawing  after  the  painting  by  Mrs.  Seymour  Lucas 
Which  told  the  Story  of  Childe  Charity. 


FRANCE  Si    BROWNE.  315 

covered  with  a  vine;  behind,  it  had  a  farmyard  and  hi^h 
granaries.  ^A'ithin,  there  were  two  parlors  for  the  rich, 
and  two  kitchens  for  the  poor,  which  the  neighbors 
thought  wonderfully  grand;  and  one  day  in  the  harvest 
season,  when  this  rich  farmer's  corn  had  been  all  cut  down 
and  housed,  he  condescended  so  far  as  to  invite  them  to  a 
harvest  supper. 

The  west-country  people  came  in  their  holiday  clothes 
and  best  behavior.  Such  heaps  of  cakes  and  cheese,  such 
baskets  of  apples  and  barrels  of  ale,  had  never  been  at 
feast  before;  and  they  were  making  merry  in  kitchen  and 
parlor,  when  a  poor  old  woman  came  to  the  back  door, 
begging  for  broken  victuals  and  a  night's  lodging.  Her 
clothes  were  coarse  and  ragged ;  her  hair  was  scanty  and 
gray;  her  back  was  bent;  her  teeth  were  gone.  She  had  a 
scjuinting  eye,  a  clubbed  foot,  and  crooked  fingers.  In 
short,  she  was  the  poorest  and  ugliest  old  woman  that  ever 
came  begging. 

The  first  who  saw  her  was  the  kitchen-maid,  and  she 
ordered  her  to  be  gone  for  an  ugly  witch.  The  next  was 
the  herd-boy,  and  he  threw  her  a  bone  over  his  shoulder; 
but  Childe  Charity,  hearing  the  noise,  came  out  from  her 
seat  at  the  foot  of  the  lowest  table,  and  asked  the  old  wo- 
man to  take  her  share  of  the  supper,  and  sleep  that  night 
in  her  bed  in  the  back  garret.  The  old  woman  sat  down 
without  a  word  of  thanks. 

All  the  company  laughed  at  Childe  Charity  for  giving 
her  bed  and  her  supper  to  a  beggar.  Her  proud  cousins 
said  it  was  just  like  her  mean  spirit,  but  Childe  Charity 
did  not  mind  them.  She  scraped  the  pots  for  her  supper 
that  night,  and  slept  on  a  sack  among  the  lumber,  while 
the  old  woman  rested  in  her  warm  bed;  and  next  morning, 
before  the  little  girl  awoke,  she  was  up  and  gone,  without 
so  much  as  saying  "  Thank  you "  or  "  Good  morning." 

That  day  all  the  servants  were  sick  after  the  feast,  and 
mostly  cross  too — so  you  may  judge  how  civil  they  were; 
when,  at  supper  time,  who  should  come  to  the  back  door 
but  the  old  woman,  again  asking  for  broken  victuals  and 
a  night's  lodging.  No  one  would  listen  to  her,  or  give  her 
a  morsel,  till  Childe  (^haritv  rose  from  her  seat  at  the  foot 
of  the  lowest  table,  and  kindly  asked  her  to  take  her  sup- 
per, and  sleep  in  her  bed  in  the  back  garret. 


316  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Ajrain  the  old  woman  sat  down  without  a  word,  Childe 
Charity  scraped  the  pots  for  lier  supper,  and  slept  on  the 
sack.  In  the  moruiuji;  the  old  woman  was  gone;  but  for 
six  nights  after,  as  sure  as  the  supper  was  spread,  there 
was  she  at  the  back  door,  and  the  little  girl  regularly  asked 
her  in. 

Childe  Charity's  aunt  said  she  would  let  her  get  enough 
of  beggars.  Uer  cousins  made  continual  sport  of  what 
they  called  her  "genteel  visitor." 

Sometimes  the  old  woman  said,  "  Child,  why  don't  you 
make  this  bed  softer?  and  why  are  your  blankets  so  thin?  " 
but  she  never  gave  her  a  word  of  thanks,  nor  a  civil  good 
morning. 

At  last,  on  the  ninth  night  from  her  first  coming,  when 
Childe  Charity  was  getting  used  to  scrape  the  pots  and 
sleep  on  the  sack,  her  accustomed  knock  came  to  the  door, 
and  there  she  stood  with  an  ugly  ashy  colored  dog,  so 
stupiddooking  and  clumsy  that  no  herd-boy  would  keep 
him. 

"  Good  evening,  my  little  girl,"  she  said,  when  Childe 
Charity  opened  tlie  door;  "I  will  not  have  your  supper 
and  bed  to-night — I  am  going  on  a  long  journey  to  see  a 
friend;  but  here  is  a  dog  of  mine,  whom  nobody  in  all  the 
west  country  will  keep  for  nie.  He  is  a  little  cross,  and 
not  very  handsome;  but  I  leave  him  to  your  care  till  the 
shortest  day  in  all  the  year.  Then  you  and  I  will  count 
for  his  keeping." 

When  the  old  woman  had  said  the  last  word,  she  set  off 
with  such  speed  that  Childe  Charity  lost  sight  of  her  in  a 
minute.  The  ugly  dog  began  to  fawn  upon  her,  but  he 
snarled  at  everyl)ody  else.  The  servants  said  he  was  a 
disgrace  to  the  house.  The  proud  cousins  wanted  him 
drowned,  and  it  was  with  great  trouble  that  Childe  Char- 
ity got  leave  to  keep  him  in  an  old  ruine<l  cow-house. 

Ugly  and  cross  as  the  dog  Mas,  he  fawned  on  her,  and 
the  old  woninn  had  left  him  to  her  care.  So  the  little  gir\ 
gave  him  jtart  of  all  her  meals,  and  when  the  hard  frost 
came,  took  him  up  to  her  own  back  garret  without  any  one 
knowing  it,  because  the  cow-house  was  damp  and  cold  in 
the  long  niglits.  The  dog  lay  (|uietly  on  some  straw  in  a 
corner.  Childe  Charity  slept  soundly,  but  every  morning 
the  servants  would  say  to  her, — 


FRANCES   BROWNE.  317 

"What  jrreat  light  and  line  talking  was  that  in  your 
back  garret?  " 

"  There  Mas  no  light  but  the  moon  shining  in  through 
the  shutterless  window,  and  no  talk  that  I  lieard,"  said 
Childe  Charit}',  and  she  thought  they  must  have  been 
dreaming;  but  night  after  night,  when  any  of  them  awoke 
in  the  dark  and  silent  hour  that  comes  before  the  morning, 
they  saw  a  light  brighter  and  clearer  than  the  Christmas 
fire,  and  heard  voices  like  those  of  lords  and  ladies  in  the 
back  garret. 

Partly  from  fear,  and  partly  from  laziness,  none  of  the 
servants  would  rise  to  see  what  might  be  there;  till  at 
length,  when  the  winter  nights  were  at  the  longest,  the 
little  parlor-maid,  who  did  least  work  and  got  most  favoi*, 
because  she  gathered  news  for  her  mistress,  crept  out  of 
bed  when  all  the  rest  were  sleeping,  and  set  herself  to 
watch  at  a  crevice  of  the  door. 

She  saw  the  dog  lying  quietly  in  the  corner,  Childe 
Charity  sleeping  soundly  in  her  bed,  and  the  moon  shining 
through  the  shutterless  window;  but  an  hour  before  day- 
break there  came  a  glare  of  lights,  and  a  sound  of  far-off 
bugles.  The  window  opened,  and  in  marched  a  troop  of 
little  men  clothed  in  crimson  and  gold,  and  bearing  ever}' 
man  a  torch,  till  the  room  looked  bright  as  day.  They 
marched  up  with  great  reverence  to  the  dog,  where  he  lay 
on  the  straw,  and  the  most  richly  clothed  among  them 
said, — 

"  Royal  prince,  we  have  prepared  the  banquet  hall. 
What  will  your  highness  please  that  we  do  next?  " 

"  Ye  have  done  well,"  said  the  dog.  "  Now  prepare  the 
feast,  and  see  that  all  things  be  in  our  best  fashion:  for 
the  princess  and  I  mean  to  bring  a  stranger  who  never 
feasted  in  our  halls  before." 

"  The  commands  of  your  highness  shall  be  obeved,"  said 
the  little  man,  making  another  reverence;  and  he  and  his 
company  passed  out  of  the  window. 

By-and-by  there  was  another  glare  of  lights,  and  a  sound 
like  far-off  flutes.  The  window  opened,  and  there  came 
in  a  company  of  little  ladies  clad  in  rose-colored  velvet, 
and  carrying  each  a  crystal  lamp.  They,  also,  walked 
with  great  reverence  up  to  the  dog,  and  the  gayest  among 
them  said, — 


31S  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

''  Koval  piiuce,  we  have  i)iri)ai'0(l  (lie  tapestry.  What 
will  your  liiuliness  please  that  we  do  next?  " 

'•  Ye  have  done  well,"  said  the  do*;'.  "  Now  prepare  tlse 
robes,  and  let  all  things  be  in  our  first  fashion:  for  the 
])rineess  and  1  will  bring  with  us  a  stranger  who  never 
feasted  in  our  halls  before," 

"  Your  highness's  eoniniands  shall  be  obe3^ed,"  said  the 
little  lady,  making  a  low  courtesy;  and  slie  and  her  eom- 
l)any  passed  out  through  the  window,  which  closed  quietly 
behind  them. 

The  dog  stretched  himself  out  upon  the  straw,  the  little 
girl  turned  in  her  sleep,  and  the  moon  shone  in  on  the  back 
garret.  The  parlor-maid  was  so  much  amazed,  and  so 
eager  to  tell  this  gi-eat  story  to  her  mistress,  that  she  could 
not  close  her  eyes  that  night,  and  was  up  before  dawn;  but 
when  she  told  it,  her  mistress  called  her  a  silly  wench  to 
have  such  foolish  dreams,  and  scolded  her  so  that  the  par- 
lor-maid durst  not  mention  what  she  had  seen  to  the  ser- 
vants. Nevertlieless  Childe  Charitv's  aunt  thought  there 
might  l>e  something  in  it  worth  knowing;  so  next  night, 
when  all  the  house  was  asleep,  she  crept  out  of  bed,  and  set 
herself  to  watch  at  the  back  garret  door. 

There  she  saw  exactly  what  the  maid  told  her — the  little 
men  with  the  torches,  and  the  little  ladies  with  the  crystal 
lamps,  came  in,  making  great  reverence  to  the  dog,  and 
they  had  the  same  conversation  as  before  only  the  dog  said 
to  the  one, — 

''Now  prepare  the  presents,"  and  to  the  other,  "Pre- 
pare the  j(nvels;"  and  when  they  were  gone  the  dog 
stretched  himself  on  the  straw,  (Miilde  Charity  turned  in 
her  sleejt,  and  the  moon  shone  in  on  the  back  garret. 

Tlie  mistress  could  not  close  her  eyes  any  more  than  the 
maid  from  eagerness  to  tell  the  story.  She  woke  up  Childe 
Charity's  rich  uncle  before  dawn;  but  when  he  heard  it, 
he  laughed  at  her  for  a  foolish  woman,  and  advised  her 
not  to  rei)eat  the  like  before  the  neighbors,  lest  they  should 
thiidc  she  had  lost  her  senses. 

The  mistress  could  say  no  more,  and  the  day  passed; 
but  that  night  the  master  thought  he  would  like  to  see 
what  went  on  in  the  back  garret;  so  when  all  the  house 
was  asleep,  he  slipped  out  of  bed,  and  set  himself  to  watch 
at  \hi'  ci-evice  in  the  door.     The  saiiK.'  tiling'  tliat  the  maid 


1 


FRAXCE.S  BROWNE.  319 

and  the  mistress  saw  happened  aj^aiii:  the  little  men  in 
crimson  with  their  torches,  and  the  little  ladies  in  rose- 
colored  velvet  with  their  lamps,  came  in  at  the  window, 
and  made  an  hund)le  reverence  to  the  ncjly  (\o^,  the  one 
sayinji',  "  Royal  i)rince,  we  have  prepared  tlie  presents," 
and  the  otiier,  ''  Royal  i)rince,  we  have  prepared  the 
jewels;  "  and  the  doji^  said  to  them  all,  "  Ye  have  done  well. 
To-morrow  come  and  meet  me  and  the  princess  with  horses 
and  chariots,  and  let  all  things  be  in  our  first  fashion:  for 
we  will  brini"-  a  stranger  from  this  house  who  has  never 
travelled  with  us  nor  feasted  in  our  halls  before." 

The  little  men  and  the  little  ladies  said,  "  Your  higli- 
ness's  commands  shall  be  obeyed."  When  they  had  gone 
out  through  the  window,  the  ugly  dog  stretched  himself  on 
the  straw,  (.'hilde  Charity  turned  in  her  sleep,  and  the 
moon  shone  in  on  the  back  garret. 

The  master  could  not  close  his  eyes,  any  more  than 
the  maid  or  mistress,  for  thinking  of  this  strange  sight. 
He  remembered  to  have  heard  his  grandfather  say  that 
somewhere  near  his  meadows  there  lay  a  path  leading  to 
the  fairies'  country,  and  the  haymakers  used  to  see  it  shin- 
ing through  the  gray  summer  morning  as  the  fairy  bands 
went  home. 

Nobody  had  heard  or  seen  the  like  for  many  years;  but 
the  master  concluded  that  the  doings  in  his  back  garret 
must  be  a  fairy  business,  and  the  ugly  dog  a  person  of 
great  account.  His  chief  wonder  was,  however,  what  vis- 
itor the  fairies  intended  to  take  from  his  house;  and,  after 
thinking  the  matter  over,  he  was  sure  it  must  be  one  of 
his  daughters — thev  were  so  handsome,  and  had  such  fine 
clothes. 

Accordingly,  Childe  Charity's  rich  uncle  made  it  his 
first  business  that  morning  to  get  readj^  a  breakfast  of 
roast  Diutton  for  the  ugl}'  dog,  and  carry  it  to  him  in  the 
old  coAv-house;  but  not  a  morsel  would  the  dog  taste.  On 
the  contrary,  he  snarled  at  the  master,  and  would  have 
bitten  him  if  he  had  not  run  away  with  his  mutton. 

"  The  fairies  have  strange  ways,"  said  the  master  to  him- 
self; but  he  called  his  daughters  privately,  bidding  them 
dress  themselves  in  their  best,  for  he  could  not  say  which 
of  them  might  be  called  into  great  company  before  night- 
fall. 


320  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

(^liilde  Charity's  proud  cousins,  henrinjT:  this,  put  on  the 
richest  of  their  silks  and  hices,  and  strutted  like  peacocks 
from  kitchen  to  parlor  all  day,  waitinj;-  for  the  call  their 
father  spoke  of,  while  the  little  p;irl  scoured  and  scrubbed 
in  the  dairy.  They  were  in  very  bad  humor  when  night 
fell,  and  nobody  had  come;  but  just  as  the  family  were 
sittiuii-  down  to  suj^per  the  uiily  doj;"  bej^an  to  bark,  and  the 
old  woman's  knock  was  heard  at  the  back  door.  Childe 
Charity  opened  it,  and  was  goinu;  to  offer  her  bed  and  sup- 
per as  usual,  when  the  old  woman  said, — 

"  This  is  the  shortest  day  in  all  the  year,  and  I  am  .c,T>inp: 
home  to  hold  a  feast  after  my  travels.  I  see  you  have  taken 
•iood  care  of  my  doi»',  and  now  if  you  will  come  with  me  to 
my  house,  he  and  I  will  do  our  best  to  entertain  you.  Here 
is  our  company." 

As  the  old  woman  spoke,  there  was  a  sound  of  far-off 
flutes  and  buijles,  then  a  .<»lare  of  lights;  and  a  great  com- 
pany, clad  so  grandly  that  they  shone  with  gold  and  jewels, 
came  in  open  chariots,  covered  with  gilding  and  drawn  by 
snow-white  horses. 

The  first  and  finest  of  the  chariots  was  empty.  The  old 
woman  led  Childe  Charity  to  it  by  the  hand,  and  the  ugly 
dog  jum])('(l  in  before  her.  The  proud  cousins,  in  all  their 
finei'v,  had  l)y  this  time  come  to  the  door,  but  nobodj^ 
wanted  them ;  and  no  sooner  were  the  old  woman  and  her 
dog  within  the  chariot  than  a  marvellous  change  passed 
over  them,  for  the  ugly  old  woman  turned  at  once  to  a 
beautiful  young  princess,  with  hmg  yellow  curls  and  a 
robe  of  green  and  gold,  while  the  ugly  dog  at  her  side 
started  up  a  fair  young  prince,  with  nut-bi'owu  hair  and  a 
robe  of  pur])le  and  silver. 

"  We  are,"  said  they,  as  the  cliariots  drove  on,  and  the 
little  girl  sat  astonished,  "  a  prince  and  princess  of  Fairy- 
l.'ind,  and  there  was  a  wager  between  us  whether  or  not 
there  were  good  people  still  to  be  found  in  these  false  and 
greedy  times.  One  said  Yes,  and  the  other  said  No;  and 
I  Imve  lost,"  said  the  prince,  "  and  must  pay  the  feast  and 
presents." 

Childe  Charity  never  heard  any  more  of  that  story. 
Some  of  the  fanner's  household,  who  were  looking  after 
tlir'Mi  through  the  moonlight  night,  said  the  chariots  had 
gone  one  way  across  the  meadows,  some  said  they  had  gone 


FRANCES    BROWNE.  321 

another,  and  till  this  day  they  cannot  agree  upon  the  di- 
rection. 

But  Childe  Charity  went  with  that  noble  company  into 
a  country  such  as  slie  had  never  seen — for  primroses  cov- 
ered all  the  ground,  and  the  lii-ht  was  always  like  that  of 
a  summer  eveninj;-.  They  took  her  to  a  royal  palace,  where 
there  was  nothing  but  feasting  and  dancing  for  seven  days. 
She  had  robes  of  pale  green  velvet  to  wear,  and  slept  in  a 
chandler  inlaid  with  ivory.  When  the  feast  was  done,  the 
prince  and  princess  gave  her  such  heaps  of  gold  and  jewels 
that  she  could  not  cari-y  them,  but  they  gave  her  a  chariot 
to  go  home  in,  drawn  by  six  white  horses;  and  on  the 
seventh  night,  which  happened  to  be  Christmas  time,  when 
the  farmer's  family  had  settled  in  their  own  minds  that  she 
would  never  come  back,  and  were  sitting  down  to  supper, 
they  heard  the  sound  of  her  coachman's  bugle,  and  saw  her 
alight  with  all  the  jewels  and  gold  at  the  very  back  door 
where  she  had  brought  in  the  ugly  old  woman. 

The  fairy  chariot  drove  away,  and  never  came  back  to 
that  farmhouse  after.  But  Childe  Charity  scrubbed  and 
scoured  no  more,  for  she  grew  a  great  lady,  even  in  the  eyes 
of  her  proud  cousins. 


WHAT    HATH    TIME    TAKEN? 

What  hath  Time  taken?    Stars,  that  shone 
On  the  early  years  of  earth, 

And  the  ancient  hills  they  looked  upon. 
Where  a  thousand  streams  had  birth ; 

Forests  that  were  the  young  world's  dower, 
With  their  long-unfading  trees; 

And  the  halls  of  wealth,  and  the  thrones  of  power- 
He  hath  taken  more  than  these. 

He  hath  taken  away  the  heart  of  youth, 

And  its  gladness,  which  hath  been 
Like  the  summer  sunshine  o'er  our  path, 

Making  the  desert  green; 
The  shrines  of  an  early  hope  and  love, 

And  the  flowers  of  every  clime. 
The  wise,  the  beautiful,  tlie  brave. 

Thou  hast  taken  from  us,  Time! 

21 


322  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

What  liatli  Tiiuo  left  lis?   desolate 

ritios.  and  ItMiiples  loiie. 
And  tlie  mighty  works  of  genius,  yet 

(^ilorious,  when  all  are  gone; 
And  the  lights  of  memory,  lingering  long, 

As  the  eve  on  western  sea — 
Treasures  of  science,  thought,  and  song — 

He  hath  left  us  more  than  these. 

He  hath  left  us  a  lesson  of  the  past, 

In  the  shades  of  perished  years; 
He  hath  left  us  the  heart's  high  places  waste, 

And  its  rainbows  fallen  in  tears. 
But  theie  's  hope  for  the  earth  and  her  children  still, 

Unwitliered  by  woe  or  crime. 
And  a  heritage  of  rest  for  all. 

Thou  hast  left  us  these,  oh  Time ! 


JOHN    ROSS    BROWNE. 
(1817—1875.) 

John  Ross  Browne  was  born  in  Ireland  in  1817.  He  was  in  his 
time  a  great  traveler.  Besides  making  several  journeys  through 
Europe  and  tlie  East,  he  was  at  different  times  United  States  Inspec- 
tor of  Customs  for  the  Pacific  Coast  and  United  States  Minister  to 
China. 

He  has  embodied  a  great  number  of  his  experiences  and  adventures 
in  his  books,  among  which  we  may  mention  '  Etchings  of  a  Wlialing 
Cruise,'  '  Yusef  ;  or  the  Journey  of  the  Franji,'  and  'Resources  of 
the  Pacific  Slope.'    He  died  in  Oakland,  Cal.,  in  1875. 

THE   HISTORY  OF   MY   HORSE,   SALADIN. 

From  'Yusef  ;  or  the  Journey  of  the  Franji.' 

If  there  was  any  one  thing  in  which  I  was  resolved  to 
be  particular  it  was  in  the  matter  of  horses.  Our  journey 
was  to  be  a  long  one,  and  experience  had  taught  me  that 
much  of  the  pleasure  of  traveling  on  horseback  depends 
upon  the  qualities  of  the  horse.  .  .  .  Yusef  had  already 
given  me  some  slight  idea  of  the  kind  of  horse  I  was  to 
have.  It  was  an  animal  of  the  purest  Arabian  blood,  de- 
scended in  a  direct  line  from  the  famous  steed  of  the  desert 
Ashrik;  its  great-granddam  was  the  beautiful  Boo-boo-la, 
for  whose  death  the  renowned  Arab  chieftain  Ballala,  then 
a  boy,  grieved  constantly  until  he  was  eighty-nine  years  of 
age,  when,  no  longer  able  to  endure  life  under  so  melan- 
choly an  affliction,  he  got  married  to  a  woman  of  bad 
temper,  and  was  tormented  to  death  in  his  hundred  and 
twentieth  year,  and  the  last  words  he  uttered  were, 
doghcra!  doghcra!  straight  ahead!  All  of  Yusef  Ba<lra's 
horses  were  his  own,  bought  with  his  own  money,  not 
broken-down  hacks  like  what  other  dragomans  hired  for 
their  Howadji ;  though,  praised  be  Allah,  he  (Yusef)  was 
above  professional  jealousy.  There  was  only  one  horse  in 
Syria  that  could  at  all  compare  with  tliis  animal,  and  tliat 
was  his  own,  Syed  Sulemin;  a  horse  that  must  be  known 
even  in  America,  for  Syed  had  leaped  a  wall  twenty  feet 
high,  and  was  trained  to  walk  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  a 
day,  and  kill  the  most  desperate  robbers  by  catching  them 

323 


324  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

up  iu  his  ttvtli  and  tossinji'  thorn  over  his  liead.  I  had 
not  heard  of  this  horse,  but  tliouglit  it  best,  by  a  slight  nod, 
to  let  Yusef  suppose  tliat  his  stor}''  was  not  altogether  un- 
familiar to  me.  Being  determined  to  examine  in  detail  all 
the  points  of  the  animal  destined  for  myself,  I  directed 
Yusef  to  bring  tliem  both  up  saddled  and  bridled,  so  that 
Ave  might  ride  out  and  try  their  respective  qualities  before 
starting  on  our  journey.  This  proposition  seemed  to  con- 
fuse liim  a  little,  but  he  brightened  up  in  a  moment  and 
went  olf,  promising  to  have  them  at  the  door  in  half  an 
hour. 

Two  hours  elapsed;  during  which  time  I  waited  with 
great  impatience  to  see  the  famous  descendant  of  the 
beautiful  Roo-boo-la.  I  looked  up  toward  the  road,  and  at 
length  saw  a  dust,  and  then  saw  a  perfect  rabble  of  Arabs, 
and  then  Yusef,  mounted  on  a  tall,  slabsided,  crooked  old 
horse,  and  then — could  it  be? — A'esI — a  living  animal,  lean 
and  lioUow,  very  old,  saddled  with  an  ancient  saddle, 
bridled  with  the  remnants  of  an  ancient  bridle,  and  led  by 
a  dozen  ragged  Arabs.  At  a  distance  it  looked  a  little  like 
a  horse;  wlien  it  came  closer  it  looked  more  like  the  ghost 
of  a  mule;  and  closer  still,  it  bore  some  resemblance  to  the 
skeleton  of  a  small  camel;  and  when  I  descended  to  the 
yard,  it  looked  a  little  like  a  horse  again. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  T,  the  indignant  blood  mounting  to  my 
cheeks,  '•  tell  me,  Yusef,  is  that  a  horse?  " 

"  A  horse!  "  retorted  he,  smiling,  as  I  took  it,  at  the  un- 
tutored simplicity  of  an  American;  "a  horse,  O  Oeneral ! 
it  is  nothing  else  but  a  horse;  and  such  an  animal,  too,  as, 
I  '11  venture  to  say,  the  richest  pasha  in  Beirut  can't  match 
this  very  moment." 

^'Taliih!"  (Jood — said  one  of  the  Arabs,  patting  him 
on  the  neck,  and  looking  sideways  at  me  in  a  confidential 
way. 

"Tahih!^^  said  another,  and  '^  lahih''  another,  and 
'*'  tnhib  "  every  Aral)  in  the  crowd,  as  if  each  one  of  them 
had  ridden  the  horse  five  hundred  miles,  and  knew  all  his 
merits  by  personal  experience. 

That  there  were  points  of  some  kind  about  him  was  not 
to  be  dis[)uted.  His  l)ack  must  have  l)een  broken  at  dif- 
ferent ]»eriods  of  his  life,  in  at  least  three  places;  for  there 
were  tliree  distinct  pyramids  on  it,  like  miniature  pyra- 


JOHN    ROH^    liROWNE.  325 

mids  of  Gizcli;  one  just  in  front  of  the  saddle,  where  liis 
shoulder-blade  ran  up  to  a  cone;  another  just  back  of  the 
saddle;  and  the  third  a  kind  of  spur  of  the  ranjije,  over  his 
hips,  where  there  was  a  sudden  breaking-  off  from  the 
original  line  of  the  backbone,  and  a  pre(i])itous  descent  to 
his  tail.  The  joints  of  his  hips  and  the  joints  of  his  Icj^s 
were  also  prominent,  especially  those  of  his  forelej»s,  which 
he  seemed  to  be  always  trying  to  straighten  out,  but  never 
could,  in  consequence  of  the  sinews  being  too  short  by  sev- 
eral inches.  His  skin  hung  upon  this  remarkable  piece  of 
framework  as  if  it  had  been  purposely  put  there  to  dry  in 
the  sun,  so  as  to  be  ready  for  leather  at  any  moment  after 
the  extinction  of  the  vital  functions  within.  But  to  judge 
from  the  eye  (there  was  only  one),  there  seemed  to  be  no 
prospect  of  a  suspension  of  vitality,  for  it  burned  with 
great  brilliancy,  showing  that  a  horse,  like  a  singed  cat, 
may  be  a  good  deal  better  than  he  looks. 

"  A  great  horse  that,"  said  Yusef,  patting  him  on  the 
neck  kindly;  "no  humbug  about  him,  General.  Fifty 
miles  a  day  he  '11  travel  fast  asleep.  He 's  a  genuine 
Syrian." 

"  And  do  you  tell  me,"  said  I  sternly,  "  that  this  is  the 
great-grandson  of  the  beautiful  Boo-boo-la?  That  I,  a 
General  in  the  Bob-tail  Militia,  and  representative  in  for- 
eign parts  of  the  glorious  City  of  Magnificent  Distances, 
am  to  make  a  public  exhibition  of  myself  throughout  Syria 
mounted  upon  that  miserable  beast?  " 

"  Nay,  as  for  that,"  replied  the  fellow,  rather  crest- 
fallen, "  far  be  it  from  me,  the  faithfullest  of  dragomans,  to 
palm  off  a  bad  horse  on  a  Howadji  of  rank.  The  very  best 
in  Beirut  are  at  my  command.  Only  say  the  word,  and  you 
shall  have  black,  white,  or  gray,  lieary  or  light,  tall  or 
short;  but  this  much  I  know,  you'll  not  find  such  an 
animal  as  that  anywhere  in  Syria.  IIo,  Saladin !  (slapping 
him  on  the  neck)  who  's  this,  old  boy?  Yusef,  eh?  Ha,  ha ! 
see  how  he  knows  me !  Who  killed  the  six  Bedouins  single- 
handed,  when  we  were  out  last,  eh,  Saladin?  Ha,  ha! 
You  know  it  was  Yusef,  you  cunning  rascal,  only  you  don't 
like  to  tell.  A  remarkable  animal,  you  perceive;  but,  as 
I  said  before,  perhaps  your  excellency  had  better  try  an- 
other." 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  no,  Yusef;  this  horse  will  do  very  well. 


326  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

lie's  a  little  uG;ly,  to  be  sure;  a  little  broken-backed,  and 
perhaps  a  little  blind,  lame,  and  spavined,  but  he  has  some 
extraordinary  points  of  character.  At  all  events,  it  will 
do  no  harm  to  try  him.  Come,  away  we  cjo!"  Sayini? 
which,  I  undertook  to  vault  into  the  saddle,  but,  the  girth 
being  loose,  it  turned  over  and  let  me  down  on  the  other 
side.  This  little  mishaj)  was  soon  remedied,  and  we  went 
ott"  in  a  smart  walk  up  the  lane  leading  from  Demetrie's 
toward  the  sand-hills.  In  a  short  time  we  were  out  of  the 
la]»yrin(li  of  hedges  formed  by  the  prickly-pears,  and  were 
going  along  very  quietly  and  pleasantly,  when  all  of  a 
sudden,  without  the  slightest  warning,  Yusef,  who  had  a 
heavy  stick  in  his  hand,  held  it  up  in  the  air  like  a  lance 
and  darted  ott"  furiously,  shouting  as  he  went,  "  Badra, 
I>adra !  "  Had  an  entire  nest  of  hornets  simultaneously 
lit  u])on  my  horse  Salad  in,  and  stung  him  to  the  quick,  he 
could  not  have  shown  more  decided  symptoms  of  sudden 
and  violent  insanity.  His  tail  stood  straight  up,  each  par- 
ticular hair  of  his  mane  started  into  life,  his  very  ears 
seemed  to  be  torturing  themselves  out  of  his  head,  while 
he  snorted  and  pawed  the  earth  as  if  perfectly  convulsed 
with  furv.  The  next  instant  he  made  a  bound,  which 
brought  my  weight  upon  the  bridle;  and  this  brought  Sala- 
din  upon  his  hind  legs,  and  upon  his  hind  legs  he  began  to 
dance  about  in  a  circle;  and  then  plunged  forward  again  in 
the  most  extraordinary  manner.  The  whole  proceeding 
was  so  very  unexpected  that  I  would  willingly  have  been 
sitting  a  short  distance  off,  a  mere  sj>ectat()r;  it  would  have 
been  so  funny  to  se(,'  somebody  else  mounted  upon  Saladin. 
Both  my  feet  came  out  of  tlie  stirrups  in  spite  of  every 
effort  to  keep  them  there;  and  the  bit,  being  contrived  in 
some  ingenious  manner,  tortured  the  horse's  mouth  to 
such  a  degree  cyvry  time  I  pulled  the  bridle,  that  he  be- 
came pei-fectly  fi-antic,  and  T  had  to  let  go  at  last  and  seize 
hold  of  Ills  mane  with  both  hands.  This  seemed  to  afford 
him  immediate  relief,  for  he  bounded  off  at  an  amazing 
rate.  My  hat  flew  off  at  the  same  time,  and  the  wind  fairly 
wliistled  through  my  hair.  T  was  so  busy  trving  to  hold  on 
that  I  had  no  time  to  Ihink  how  verv  sininilar  the  whole 
tliing  was;  if  <liei-e  was  any  thought  at  all  it  was  only  as 
to  Die  probable  issue  of  the  adventure.  Away  we  dashed, 
through  chaparrals  of  prickly-pear,  over  ditches  and  dikes, 


JOHN   ROSS   BROWNE.  327 

out  upon  the  rolling  sand-phiini  I  looked,  and  beheld  a 
cloud  of  dust  approacliin.i;.  The  next  moment  a  voice 
shouted  "  Badra,  ]>adi'a !  "  the  batUe-crv  of  our  dragoman, 
and  then  Yusef  himself,  whirliui;  Ids  stick  over  his  head, 
passed  like  a  shot.  "  Badra,  Badra  I  "  sounded  again  in 
the  distance.  Saladin  wheeled  and  darted  madly  after 
him;  while  I,  clutching  the  saddle  with  one  hand,  just 
saved  my  balance  in  time.  "Badra,  Badra!"  shrieked 
Yusef,  whirling  again,  and  blinded  by  the  fury  of  battle. 
"  Come  on,  come  on  !  A  thousand  of  you  at  a  time  I  Die, 
villains,  die !  "  Again  he  dashed  furiously  by  covered  in  a 
cloud  of  dust,  and  again  he  returned  to  the  charge;  and 
again,  driven  to  the  last  extremity  by  the  terrific  manner 
in  which  Saladin  wheeled  around  and  followed  every 
charge,  I  seized  hold  of  the  bridle  and  tried  all  my  might 
to  stop  him,  but  this  time  he  not  only  danced  about  on  his 
hind  legs,  but  made  broadside  charges  to  the  left  for  a  hun- 
dred yards  on  a  stretch,  and  then  turned  to  the  right  and 
made  broadside  charges  again  for  another  hundred  yards, 
and  then  reared  up  and  attempted  to  turn  a  back  somerset. 
All  this  time  there  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  in  my  mind 
that  sooner  or  later  I  should  be  thrown  violently  on  the 
ground  and  have  my  neck  and  several  of  my  limbs  broken. 
In  vain  I  called  to  Yusef;  in  vain  I  threatened  to  discharge 
him  on  the  spot;  sometimes  he  was  half  a  mile  off,  and 
sometimes  he  passed  in  a  cloud  of  dust  like  a  whirlwind, 
but  I  might  just  as  well  have  shouted  to  the  great 
King  of  Day  to  stand  still  as  Badra,  the  Destroyer  of  Rob- 
bers. By  this  time,  finding  it  impossible  to  hold  Saladin 
by  the  bridle,  I  seized  him  by  the  tail  with  one  hand,  and 
by  the  mane  with  the  other,  and  away  he  darted  faster 
than  ever.  "  Badra,  Badra! "  screamed  a  voice  behind;  it 
was  Y^'usef  in  full  chase!  Away  we  flew,  up  hill  and  down 
hill,  over  banks  of  sand,  down  into  fearful  hollows,  and  up 
again  on  the  other  side;  and  still  the  battle-cry  of  Yusef 
resounded  behind,  "  Badra,  Badra  forever !  " 

On  we  dashed  till  the  pine  grove  loomed  up  ahead ;  on, 
and  still  on,  till  we  were  close  up  and  the  grove  stood  like 
a  wall  of  trees  before  us.  "  Thank  heaven,"  said  I,  "  we  '11 
stop  now!  Hold,  Y^usef,  hold  !  "  "  Badra,  Badra  !  "  cried 
the  frantic  horseman,  dashing  by  and  plunging  in  among 
the  trees:  "Badra  forever!"     Saladin  plunged  after  him, 


328  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

llyiiig  round  the  trees  and  tlirough  the  narrow  passes  in 
such  a  nuinner  tliat,  if  I  feared  before  that  my  neclv  ^YOuld 
be  broken,  I  felt  an  al)Solute  eertainty  now  that  my  brains 
would  be  knocked  out  and  both  my  eyes  run  through  by 
souu^  projecting  limb.  In  the  horror  of  the  thought,  I 
yelled  to  Yusef  for  God's  sake  to  stop,  that  it  was  perfect 
folly  to  be  running  about  in  this  way  like  a  pair  of  mad- 
men; but  by  this  time  he  had  scoured  out  on  the  plain 
again,  and  was  now  engaged  in  going  through  the  exercise 
of  the  Djereed  with  a  party  of  country  Arabs,  scattering 
their  horses  hither  and  thither,  and  flourishing  his  stick 
at  their  heads  every  time  he  came  within  reach.  They 
seemed  to  regard  it  as  an  excellent  joke,  and  took  it  in  very 
good  part ;  but  for  me  there  was  no  joke  about  the  business, 
and  I  resolved  as  soon  as  a  chance  occurred  to  discharge 
Yuscf  on  the  spot.  Saladin,  becoming  now  a  little  tamed 
by  his  frolic,  slackened  his  pace,  so  that  I  got  my  feet  back 
into  the  stirrups,  and  obtained  some  control  over  him. 
There  was  a  Syrian  cafe  and  smoke-house  not  far  off,  and 
thither  I  directed  my  course.  A  dozen  boys  ran  out  from 
the  grove,  and  seized  him  by  the  bridle,  and  at  the  same 
time,  Yusef  coming  up,  both  horses  were  resigned  to  their 
charge,  and  we  dismounted.  "  Hallo,  sir!  "  said  I,  "  «ome 
this  way! "  for  to  tell  the  truth  I  was  exceedingly  enraged 
and  meant  to  discharge  him  on  the  spot. 

"  Bless  me!  what 's  l)ecome  of  your  hat?"  cried  Yusef, 
greatly  surprised;  "I  thought  your  excellency  had  put 
it  in  your  pocket,  to  keep  it  from  blowing  away!  " 

"  The  devil  you  did  !  Send  after  it,  if  you  please;  it  must 
be  a  mile  back  on  that  sand-hill." 

A  boy  was  immediately  dispatched  in  search  of  the  hat. 
Meantime,  while  I  v\as  pre])aring  words  sufficiently  strong 
to  express  my  displeasure,  Yusef  declared  that  he  had 
never  seen  an  American  ride  better  than  I  did,  only  the 
liorse  was  not  used  to  being  managed  in  the  American 
fashion. 

"  Ell !  I'erhaps  you  allude  to  the  way  I  let  go  the  reins, 
and  seized  him  by  the  mane?  " 

''  To  that  most  certainly  I  do  refer,"  replied  Yusef;  "  he 
doesn't  understand  it.  None  of  the  horses  in  Syria  under- 
stand it." 

"  No,"  said  T,  "  very  few  horses  do.     None  but  the  best 


JOHX    ROf^H    BROWNE.  329 

riders  in  America  dare  to  undertake  sueli  a  thing  as  that. 
Did  you  see  how  I  let  my  feet  come  out  of  the  stirrups, 
and  rode  without  depending  at  all  ui)on  tlie  saddle?  " 

''Most  truly  I  did;  and  exceedingly  marvelous  it  was 
to  me  that  you  were  not  thrown.  Any  but  a  very  practiced 
rider  wouhl  have  been  flung  upon  the  ground  in  an  instant. 
But  wherefore,  O  General,  do  you  ride  in  that  dangerous 
way?  " 

"  Because  it  lifts  the  horse  from  the  ground  and  makes 
him  go  faster.  Besides,  when  you  don't  j)ull  the  bridle,  of 
course  you  don't  hurt  his  month  or  stop  his  headway." 

Yusef  assented  to  this,  with  many  exclamations  of  sur- 
prise at  the  various  customs  that  prevail  in  different  parts 
of  the  world ;  maintaining,  however,  that  the  Syrian  horses 
not  being  used  to  it,  perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  me  in 
view  of  our  iournev  to  learn  the  Svrian  way  of  guiding 
and  controlling  horses;  which  I  agreed  to  do  forthwith. 
We  then  sat  down  and  had  some  coffee  and  chibouks;  and 
while  I  smoked  Yusef  enlightened  me  on  all  the  points  of 
Syrian  horsemanship :  how  I  was  to  raise  my  arms  when 
I  wanted  the  horse  to  go  on,  and  hold  them  up  when  I 
wanted  him  to  run,  and  let  them  down  when  I  wanted  him 
to  stop;  how  I  was  to  lean  a  little  to  the  right  or  the  left, 
and  by  the  slightest  motion  of  the  bridle  guide  him  either 
way;  how  I  was  to  lean  back  or  forward  in  certain  cases, 
and  never  trot  at  all,  as  that  was  a  most  unnatural  and 
barbarous  gait,  unbecoming  both  to  horse  and  rider.  Upon 
these  and  a  great  many  other  points  he  descanted  learn- 
edly, till  the  boy  arrived  with  my  hat;  when,  paying  all 
actual  expenses  for  coffee  and  chibouks,  we  distributed  a 
small  amount  of  backshish  among  the  boys  who  had  at- 
tended our  horses,  and  mounted  once  more.  This  time, 
under  the  instruction  of  Yusef,  I  soon  learned  how  to 
manage  Saladin,  and  the  ride  back  to  Beirut  was  both 
pleasant  and  entertaining. 


JAMES   r.UYCE. 
(1838 ) 

The  Right  Honorable  James  Bryco,  P.C.,  D.C.L.,  F.R.S.,  M.  P. 
for  Aberdeen  since  1885,  -was  born  in  Belfast  in  1838.  He  is  the 
eldest  son  of  James  Bryce,  LL.D.,  of  Glasgow  (who  died  in  1877), 
and  Margaret,  the  eldest  daughter  of  James  Young,  Abbeyville, 
County  Antrim.  He  married  Elizabeth  Marion,  daughter  of  Thomas 
Ashton,  Fordbank,  near  Manchester,  1889.  He  was  educated  at  the 
Hich  School  and  University  of  Glasgow,  and  was  a  scholar  of 
Trinity  College.  He  was  gi-aduated  from  Oxford  B.xV.  in  1862  and 
D.C.L.  in  1870,  and  was  elected  a  Fellow  of  Oriel  College  in 
18fi2.  He  was  made  a  barrister  in  Lincoln's  Inn  in  1867,  and  prac- 
ticed till  1882.  He  was  appointed  Regius  Professor  of  Civil  Law  at 
Oxford  in  1870.  and  resigned  that  office  in  1893. 

He  was  member  of  Parliament  for  the  Tower  Hamlets  in  1880, 
and  was  ap})ointed  Under-Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs  in 
1886.  He  was  Chancellor  of  the  Duchy  of  Lancaster  (with  a  seat  in 
the  Cabinet)  in  1892;  President  of  the  Board  of  Trade  in  1894; 
Chairman  of  the  Royal  Commission  on  Secondary  Education  in  1894; 
and  a  member  of  the  Senate  of  London  University  in  1893.  He  be- 
came a  Fellow  of  the  Roj'al  Society  in  1894;  corresponding  mem- 
ber of  the  Institute  of  France  in  1891;  foreign  member  of  the 
Royal  Academies  of  Turin  and  Brussels  in  1896;  and  corresponding 
member  of  the  Sociota  Romana  di  Storia  Patria  in  1885.  He  was 
made  Honorary  LL.D.  of  tlie  Edinl)in-gh  University  in  1883,  of 
Gla.sgow  University  in  1886,  and  of  Michigan  University  in  1887. 
He  was  made  Dor-tor  of  Political  Science  of  the  Royal  Hungarian  Uni- 
versity of  Pnda  Pest  in  1896.  Doctor  of  Letters  of  the  Victoria  Univer- 
sity in  1897,  Doctor  of  Civil  Law  of  Trinity  University,  Toronto,  in 
1897,  Doctor  of  Letters  of  Cambridge  University  in  1898,  and  an 
Honorary  Fellow  of  Trinity  and  Oriel  Colleges,  Oxford.  He  Avas 
President  of  the  Alpine  Club  from  1899  to  1901. 

His  publications  are  :  'The  Flora  of  the  Island  of  Arran,'  'The 
Holy  Roman  Empire,'  '  Report  on  the  Condition  of  Education  in 
Lancashire  '  (for  the  Schools  Enquiry  Commission),  '  The  Trade 
Marks  Registration  Act,  witli  Introduction  and  Notes  on  Trade 
Mark  Law,'  'Transcaucasia  and  Ararat,'  'The  American  Common- 
wealth,' '  Impressions  of  South  Africa,'  and  '  Studies  in  History  and 
Jurisprudence.'     He  also  edited  'Two  Centuries  of  Irish  History.' 

As  an  original  and  accurate  liistorian  and  as  a  cai-efnl  observer  he 
takes  high  rank.  His  '  American  Commonwealth'  is  generally  ad- 
mitted t--)  be  the  best  critical  analysis  of  American  institutions  made 
by  a  foreign  writer. 


330 


RIGHT  HON.  JAMES  BRYCE 

From  a  photograph    by  J .  (astctll  Smith,  London,  taken   in  l!i91 

for  the  Alpine  Club 


JAME^   BRYCE.  331 

NATIONAL    CHARACTERISTICS    AS    MOLDING 

PUBLIC    OPINION. 

From  the  '  American  Commonwealth.' 

As  the  public  opinion  of  a  people  is  even  more  directly 
than  its  political  institutions  the  reflection  and  expression 
of  its  character,  it  is  convenient  to  begin  the  analysis  of 
opinion  in  America  by  notin<]:  some  of  those  general  fea- 
tures of  national  character  which  give  tone  and  color  to 
the  people's  thoughts  and  feelings  on  politics.  There  are, 
of  course,  varieties  proper  to  dilferent  classes,  and  to 
different  parts  of  the  vast  territory  of  the  Union;  but  it  is 
well  to  consider  first  such  characteristics  as  belong  to  the 
nation  as  a  whole,  and  afterwards  to  examine  the  various 
classes  and  districts  of  the  country.  And  when  I  speak  of 
the  nation  I  mean  the  native  Americans.  What  follows  is 
not  applicable  to  the  recent  immigrants  from  Europe,  and, 
of  course,  even  less  applicable  to  the  Southern  negroes; 
though  both  these  elements  are  potent  by  their  votes. 

The  Americans  are  a  good-natured  people,  kindly,  help- 
ful to  one  another,  disposed  to  take  a  charitable  view  even 
of  wrongdoers.  Their  anger  sometimes  flames  up,  but  the 
fire  is  soon  extinct.  Nowhere  is  cruelty  more  abhorred. 
Even  a  mob  lynching  a  horse  thief  in  the  West  has  consid- 
eration for  the  criminal,  and  will  give  him  a  good  drink  of 
whisky  before  he  is  strung  up.  Cruelty  to  slaves  was 
rare  while  slavery  lasted,  the  best  proof  of  which  is  the 
quietness  of  the  slaves  during  the  war,  when  all  the  men 
and  many  of  the  bojs  of  the  South  were  serving  in  the 
Confederate  armies.  As  everybody  knows,  juries  are 
more  lenient  to  offenses  of  all  kinds  but  one,  offenses 
against  women,  than  they  are  anywhere  in  Europe.  The 
Southern  "rebels"  were  soon  forgiven;  and  though  civil 
Avars  are  proverbially  bitter,  there  have  been  few  struggles 
in  which  the  combatants  did  so  many  little  friendly  acts 
for  one  another,  few  in  which  even  the  vanquished  have  so 
quickly  buried  their  resentments.  It  is  true  that  news- 
papers and  public  speakers  say  hard  things  of  tlieir  op- 
ponents; ])ut  this  is  a  pnrt  of  tlie  game,  and  is  besides  a 
way  of  relieving  their  feelings:  the  bark  is  sometimes  the 
louder  in  order  that  a  bite  mav  not  follow.    Vindictiveness 


332  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

sliown  by  a  piiblit-  man  excites  general  disapproval,  and 
the  maxim  of  lettiujj^  bygones  be  bygones  is  imshed  so  far 
that  an  ullender's  nnsdeeds  are  often  forgotten  when  they 
ought  to  be  remembered  against  him. 

All  the  world  knows  that  they  are  a  humorous  people. 
They  are  as  conspicuously  the  purveyors  of  humor  to  the 
nineteenth  century  as  the  French  were  the  purveyors  of 
wit  to  the  eighteenth.  Nor  is  tliis  sense  of  the  ludicrous 
side  of  things  conlined  to  a  few  brilliant  writers.  It  is  dif- 
fused among  the  whole  people;  it  colors  their  ordinary 
life,  and  gives  to  their  talk  that  distinctively  new  flavor 
which  a  European  palate  enjoys.  Their  capacity  for  en- 
joying a  joke  against  tliemselves  was  oddly  illustrated  at 
the  outset  of  the  Civil  War,  a  time  of  stern  excitement,  by 
the  merriment  which  arose  over  the  hast}'  retreat  of  the 
Federal  troops  at  the  battle  of  Bull  Run.  When  William 
M.  Tweed  was  ruling  and  robbing  New  York,  and  had  set 
on  the  bench  men  who  were  openly  prostituting  justice,  the 
citizens  found  the  situation  so  amusing  that  they  almost 
forgot  to  be  angry.  IMucli  of  President  Lincoln's  popular- 
it  v,  and  much  also  of  the  gift  he  showed  for  restoring  con- 
fidence  to  the  North  at  the  darkest  moments  of  tlie  war, 
was  due  to  the  huinorous  way  he  used  to  turn  things,  con- 
veying the  impression  of  not  being  himself  uneasy,  even 
when  he  wns  most  so. 

That  indulgent  view  of  mankind  which  I  have  already 
mentioned,  a  view  odd  in  a  people  whose  ancestors  were 
penetrated  with  the  belief  in  original  sin,  is  strengthened 
by  this  wish  to  get  amusement  out  of  everything.  The 
want  of  seriousness  which  it  produces  may  be  more  ap- 
7)arent  than  real.  Yet  it  has  its  significance;  for  people 
l>econie  affected  by  the  language  they  use,  as  we  see  men 
grow  into  cynics  when  they  have  acquired  the  habit  of 
talking  cynicism  for  the  sake  of  effect. 

They  are  a  hopeful  peoph>.  Whether  or  no  they  are 
right  in  calling  themselves  a  new  people,  fhoy  certainly 
seem  to  feel  in  their  veins  the  bounding  pulse  of  youth. 
Thoy  see  a  long  vista  of  3'ears  stretching  out  befon;  tliem, 
in  which  they  will  have  time  enough  to  cure  all  their 
faults,  to  overcome  all  the  obstacles  that  block  their  path. 
They  look  at  their  enormous  territory  with  its  still  only 
half-exjdored  sources  of  wealth,  they  reckon  up  the  growth 


JAMES   BRYGE.  333 

of  their  popiilaliou  and  their  products,  they  contrast  the 
comfort  and  intelligence  of  their  laboring  classes  with 
the  condition  of  the  masses  in  the  Old  World.  They  re- 
member the  dangers  that  so  long  threatened  the  Union 
from  the  slave  power,  and  the  rebellion  it  raised,  and  see 
peace  and  harmony  now  restored,  the  South  more  pros- 
perous and  contented  than  at  any  previous  epoch,  perfect 
good  finding  between  all  sections  of  the  countrv.  It  is 
natural  for  them  to  believe  in  their  star.  And  this  san- 
guine temper  makes  them  tolerant  of  evils  which  they  re- 
gard as  transitory,  removable  as  soon  as  time  can  be  found 
to  root  them  up. 

They  have  unbounded  faith  in  what  they  call  the  People 
and  in  a  democratic  s^^stem  of  government.  The  great 
states  of  the  European  continent  are  distracted  l)y  the  con- 
tests of  Republicans  and  Monarchists,  and  of  rich  and 
poor, — contests  which  go  down  to  the  foundations  of  gov- 
ernment, and  in  Prance  are  further  embittered  by  re- 
ligious passions.  Even  in  England  the  ancient  Constitu- 
tion is  always  under  repair,  and  while  many  think  it  is 
being  ruined  by  changes,  others  hold  that  still  greater 
changes  are  needed  to  make  it  tolerable.  No  such  ques- 
tions trouble  American  minds,  for  nearly  everybody  be- 
lieves, and  everybody  declares,  that  the  frame  of  govern- 
ment is  in  its  main  lines  so  excellent  that  such  reforms 
as  seem  called  for  need  not  touch  those  lines,  but  are  re- 
quired only  to  protect  the  Constitution  from  being  per- 
verted by  the  parties.  Hence  a  further  confidence  that  the 
people  are  sure  to  decide  right  in  the  long  run,  a  confi- 
dence inevitable  and  essential  in  a  government  which  re- 
fers every  question  to  the  arbitrament  of  numbers.  There 
have,  of  course,  been  instances  where  the  once  insignifi- 
cant minority  proved  to  have  been  wiser  than  the  majority 
of  the  moment.  Such  was  eminently  the  case  in  the  great 
slavery  struggle.  But  here  the  minority  prevailed  by 
growing  into  a  majority  as  events  developed  the  real  is- 
sues, so  that  this  also  has  been  deemed  a  ground  for  hold- 
ing that  all  minorities  which  have  right  on  their  side  will 
bring  round  their  antagonists,  and  in  the  long  run  win  by 
voting  power.  If  you  ask  an  intelligent  citizen  why  he  so 
holds,  he  will  answer  that  truth  and  justice  are  sure  to 
make  their  way  into  the  minds  and  consciences  of  the 


334  IRIfin    LITERATURE. 

majority.  This  is  doomed  an  axiom,  and  the  more  readily 
so  doomed,  because  truth  is  identifiod  with  common  sense, 
the  quality  which  the  average  citizen  is  most  confidently 
proud  of  i)ossossin,£j. 

This  feelinii'  shades  off  into  anothei*,  externally  like  it, 
but  at  bottom  distinct — the  i'celini;'  not  only  that  the  ma- 
jority, be  it  rijiht  or  wrong-,  will  and  must  prevail,  but  that 
its  being  the  majority  proves  it  to  be  right.  TJiis  feeling 
a])pears  in  the  guise  sometimes  of  piety  and  sometimes  of 
fatalism,  lleligious  minds  hold — you  find  tlie  idea  under- 
lying many  books  and  hear  it  in  many  ])ulpits — that 
Divine  Providence  has  especially  chosen  and  led  the  Amer- 
ican people  to  work  out  a  higher  type  of  freedom  and  civil- 
ization tlian  any  other  state  has  yet  attained,  and  that  this 
great  work  will  surely  be  brought  to  a  happy  issue  by  the 
])T'(»tcrting  hand  which  has  so  long  guided  it.  Before 
others  who  are  less  scMisitive  to  such  impressions,  the  will 
of  the  peo])le  looms  up  like  one  of  the  irresistible  forces  of 
nature,  which  you  must  obey,  and  which  you  can  turn  and 
use  only  by  obeying.  In  the  famous  Avords  of  Bacon,  non 
nisi  parcndo  vincitiir. 

The  Americans  are  an  educated  people,  compared  with 
the  whole  mass  of  the  population  in  any  European  country 
except  Switzerland,  parts  of  German,y,  Norway,  Iceland, 
and  Scotland;  that  is  to  say,  the  average  of  knowledge  is 
higher,  the  habit  of  reading  and  tliinking  more  generally 
diffused,  than  in  any  other  country.  (I  speak  of  course, 
of  the  native  Americans,  excluding  negroes  and  recent  im- 
migrants.) They  know  the  Constitution  of  their  own 
country,  they  follow  pul)lic  affairs,  they  join  in  local  gov- 
ernment and  learn  from  it  how  government  must  be  car- 
ried on,  and  in  i)articular  how  discussion  must  be  con- 
(Incted  in  meetiTigs,  and  its  results  tested  at  elections. 
The  town  meeting  has  been  the  most  perfect  school  of  self- 
government  in  any  modern  country.  They  exercise  their 
minds  on  theological  questions,  debating  points  of  Chris- 
tian doctrine  with  no  small  acuteness.^  Women  in  particu- 
lar,  though   their  chief  reading  is  fiction  and  theologj^, 

*  See  for  a  curious,  t1iou{;1i,  it  must  be  admitted,  somewliat  dismal  ac- 
count of  tlif'so  tlieolof^i'-.'il  discussions  among  the  ordinary  cilizeiis  of  a 
HMi;iII  Wf'stern  r-ointiiiinit)',  tlie  striking  novel  of  Mr.  E.  W.  Howe,  'The 
Story  of  a  (Jountry  Town.' 


JAMES   BRYCE.  335 

pick  up  at  tlie  public  scliools  and  from  the  popular  maga- 
zines far  more  miscellaneous  information  than  the  women 
of  any  European  country  possess,  and  this  naturally  tells 
on  the  intelligence  of  tlie  men. 

That  the  education  of  the  masses  is  nevertheless  a  super- 
ficial education  goes  without  saying.  It  is  sufficient  to 
enable  them  to  think  they  know  something  about  the  great 
problems  of  politics:  insufficient  to  show  them  how  little 
they  know.  The  public  elementary  school  gives  everybody 
the  key  to  knowledge  in  making  reading  and  writing 
familiar,  but  it  has  not  time  to  teach  him  how  to  use  the 
key,  whose  use  is  in  fact,  by  the  pressure  of  daily  work, 
almost  confined  to  the  newspaper  and  the  magazine.  So 
we  may  say  that  if  the  political  education  of  the  average 
American  voter  be  compared  with  that  of  the  average 
voter  in  Europe,  it  stands  high ;  but  if  it  be  compared  with 
the  functions  which  the  theory  of  the  American  Govern- 
ment lays  on  him,  which  its  spirit  implies,  which  the 
methods  of  its  party  organization  assume,  its  inadequacy 
is  manifest.  This  observation,  however,  is  not  so  much  a 
reproach  to  the  schools,  which  at  least  do  what  English 
schools  omit — instruct  the  child  in  the  principles  of  the 
Constitution — as  a  tribute  to  the  height  of  the  ideal  which 
the  American  conception  of  popular  rule  sets  up. 

For  the  functions  of  the  citizens  are  not,  as  has  hitherto 
been  the  case  in  Europe,  confined  to  the  choosing  of  legis- 
lators, who  are  then  left  to  settle  issues  of  polie.v  and  select 
executive  rulers.  The  American  citizen  is  virtually  one 
of  the  governors  of  the  republic.  Issues  are  decided  and 
rulers  selected  by  the  direct  popular  vote.  Elections  are 
so  frequent  that  to  do  his  duty  at  them  a  citizen  ought  to 
be  constantl^^  watching  public  affairs  with  the  full  com- 
prehension of  the  principles  involved  in  them,  and  a  judg- 
ment of  the  candidates  derived  from  a  criticism  of  their 
arguments  as  well  as  a  recollection  of  their  past  careers. 
As  has  been  said,  the  instruction  received  in  the  common 
schools  and  from  the  newspapers,  and  supposed  to  be  de- 
veloped by  the  practice  of  primaries  and  conventions, 
while  it  makes  the  voter  deem  himself  capable  of  govern- 
ing, does  not  completely  fit  him  to  weigh  the  real  merits 
of  statesmen,  to  discern  the  true  grounds  on  which  ques- 
tions ought  to  be  decided,  to  note  the  drift  of  events  and 


330  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

discover  the  directioii  in  wbicli  parties  are  beinjj;  carried, 
lie  is  like  a  sailor  who  kuows  the  spars  and  ropes  of  the 
shij)  aud  is  expert  in  working  her,  but  is  ignorant  of 
geography  and  navigation ;  who  can  perceive  that  some  of 
the  officers  are  smart  and  others  dull,  but  cannot  judge 
which  of  them  is  «iualified  to  use  the  sextant  or  will  best 
keep  his  head  during  a  hurricane. 

They  are  a  moral  and  well-conducted  people.  Setting 
aside  the  collurics  f/cntiiini  which  one  finds  in  Western 
mining  camps,  and  which  popular  literature  has  presented 
to  Europeans  as  far  larger  than  it  really  is,  setting  aside 
also  the  rabble  of  a  few  great  cities  and  the  negroes  of  the 
South,  the  average  of  temperance,  chastity,  truthfulness, 
and  general  probity  is  somewhat  higher  than  in  any  of  the 
great  nations  of  Europe.  Tlie  instincts  of  the  native 
farmer  or  artisan  are  almost  invariably  kindly  and  char- 
itable. He  respects  the  law;  he  is  deferential  to  women 
aud  indulgent  to  chihlren;  he  attaches  an  almost  excessive 
value  to  the  possession  of  a  genial  manner  and  the  ob- 
servance of  domestic  duties. 

They  are  also  a  religious  people.  It  is  not  merely  that 
they  respect  religion  and  its  ministers,  for  that  one  might 
say  of  Russians  or  Sicilians,  not  merely  that  they  are  as- 
siduous chui-ch-goers  and  Sunda^'-school  teachers,  but  that 
they  have  an  intelligent  interest  in  the  form  of  faith  they 
profess,  are  pious  without  superstition,  and  zealous  with- 
out bigotry.  The  importance  which  they  still,  though  less 
than  formerly,  attach  to  dogmatic  propositions,  does  not 
prevent  them  from  feeling  the  mond  side  of  their  theology. 
Christianity  influences  conduct,  not  ind(HMl  half  as  much 
as  in  theory  it  ought,  but  probably  more  than  it  does  in 
any  other  modern  country,  and  far  more  than  it  did  in  the 
so-called  ages  of  faith. 

Nor  do  their  moral  and  religious  impulses  remain  in  the 
soft  haze  of  self-complacent  sentiment.  The  desire  to  ex- 
punge or  cure  the  visible  evils  of  the  world  is  strong.  No- 
^\•h(*re  are  so  many  philanthropic  and  reformatory  agencies 
at  work.  Zeal  outruns  discretion,  outruns  the  possibilities 
of  the  case,  in  not  a  few  of  the  efforts  made,  as  well  by  leg- 
islation as  by  voluntary  action,  to  suppress  vice,  to  prevent 
intenij'er.'ince,  to  jiurify  popular  litcratui-e. 

Keligion  apart,  they  are  an  unreverential  people.     I  do 


JAMES   BRYCE.  337 

not  mean  irreverent, — far  from  it;  nor  do  I  mean  that  they 
have  not  a  great  capacity  for  hero-worship,  as  they  have 
many  a  time  shown.  I  mean  that  they  are  little  disposed, 
especially  in  public  questions — political,  economical,  or 
social — to  defer  to  the  opinions  of  those  who  are  wiser  or 
better  instructed  than  themselves.  Everything  tends  to 
make  the  individual  independent  and  self-reliant.  He  goes 
early  into  the  world;  he  is  left  to  make  his  way  alone;  he 
tries  one  occupation  after  another,  if  the  first  or  second 
venture  does  not  prosper;  he  gets  to  think  that  each  man 
is  his  own  best  helper  and  adviser.  Thus  he  is  led,  I  will 
not  say  to  form  his  own  opinions,  for  even  in  America  few 
are  those  who  do  that,  but  to  fancy  that  he  has  formed 
them,  and  to  feel  little  need  of  aid  from  others  towards 
correcting  them.  There  is,  therefore,  less  disposition  than 
in  Europe  to  expect  light  and  leading  on  public  affairs 
from  speakers  or  writers.  Oratory  is  not  directed  towards 
instruction,  but  towards  stimulation.  Special  knowledge, 
which  commands  deference  in  applied  science  or  in  finance, 
does  not  command  it  in  politics,  because  that  is  not  deemed 
a  special  subject,  but  one  within  the  comprehension  of 
every  jDractical  man.  Politics  is,  to  be  sure,  a  profession, 
and  so  far  might  seem  to  need  professional  aptitudes. 
But  the  professional  politician  is  not  the  man  who  has 
studied  statesmanship,  but  the  man  who  has  practiced  the 
art  of  running  conventions  and  winning  elections. 

Even  that  strong  point  of  America,  the  completeness 
and  highly  i^opular  character  of  local  government,  con- 
tributes to  lower  the  standard  of  attainment  expected  in 
a  public  man,  because  the  citizens  judge  of  all  politics  by 
the  politics  they  see  first  and  know  best — those  of  their 
township  or  city,  and  fancy  that  he  who  is  fit  to  be  select- 
man, or  county  commissioner,  or  alderman,  is  fit  to  sit  in 
the  great  council  of  the  nation.  Like  the  shepherd  in 
Virail,  thev  think  the  onlv  difference  between  their  town 
and  Rome  is  in  its  size  and  believe  that  what  does  for 
Lafayetteville  will  do  well  enough  for  Washington. 
Hence  when  a  man  of  statesmanlike  gifts  appears,  he  has 
little  encouragement  to  take  a  high  and  statesmanlike 
tone,  for  his  words  do  not  necessarily  receive  weight  from 
his  position.  He  fears  to  be  instructive  or  hortatory,  lest 
such  an  attitude  should  expose  him  to  ridicule;  and  iu 
22 


33S  IRISn    LITIJRATURE. 

Ainei'icji  riilicnlo  is  a  toii'ible  power.  Notlnnu;  escapes  it. 
Few  have  the  courage  to  face  it.  lu  the  iudulgence  of  it 
even  this  liiiinaiie  race  can  be  unfeeling. 

They  are  a  busy  peoph*.  I  have  already  observed  that 
the  leisure  class  is  relatively  snuill,  is  in  fact  confined  to  a 
few  I'^astern  cities.  Tlie  citizen  has  little  time  to  think 
about  political  ])roblenis.  l']ngrossing  all  the  working 
hours,  liis  avocation  leaves  him  only  stray  moments  for 
this  fundamental  duty.  It  is  true  that  he  admits  his  re- 
sponsibilities, considers  himself  a  member  of  a  party, 
takes  some  intei-est  in  current  events.  But  although  he 
would  reject  the  idea  that  his  thinking  should  be  done  for 
him,  he  has  not  leisure  to  do  it  for  himself,  and  must  prac- 
tically lean  upon  and  follow  his  party.  It  astonishes  an 
English  visitor  to  find  how  small  a  part  politics  play  in 
conversation  among  the  wealthier  classes  and  generally  in 
the  cities,  louring  a  tour  of  four  months  in  America  in  the 
autumn  of  1881,  in  which  I  had  occasion  to  mingle  with  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  in  all  parts  of  the  country, 
and  particularly  in  the  Eastern  cities,  I  never  once  heard 
American  politics  discussed  except  wlien  I  or  some  other 
European  brought  the  subject  on  the  carpet.  In  a  presi- 
dential year,  and  especially  during  the  months  of  a  presi- 
dential campaign,  there  is,  of  course,  abundance  of  private 
talk  as  well  as  of  public  speaking,  but  even  then  the 
issues  raised  are  largely  personal  rather  than  political  in 
the  European  sense.  But  at  other  times  the  visitor  is  apt 
to  feel — more,  I  think,  than  he  feels  anywhere  in  Britain— 
that  his  host  has  been  heavily  pressed  by  his  own  business 
concerns  during  the  day,  and  that  when  the  hour  of  relax- 
ation arrives  he  gladly  turns  to  lighter  and  more  agreeable 
topics  than  the  state  of  the  nation.  This  remark  is  less  ap- 
plicable to  the  dwellers  in  villages.  There  is  plenty  of 
political  chat  round  the  store  at  the  cross-roads,  and 
though  it  is  rather  in  tlie  nature  of  gossip  than  of  debate, 
it  seems,  along  with  the  y)ractice  of  local  government,  to 
sustain  the  interest  of  ordinary  folk  in  public  affairs.^ 

1  Tlio  European  country  where  the  common  ppoj)le  talk  most  about 
politics  in,  I  think.  Groece.  I  remeriihf^r,  for  instance,  in  crossing  the 
channt'l  which  dividas  Cephalonia  from  Itliaca,  to  liavolieard  the  boatmen 
disfiiss  a  rfceiit  niinistorial  crisis  at  Aihonsdiiring  the  wliole  voyage  with 
thts  liveliest  interest  and  apparently  considerable  knowledge. 


JAMEfi    BRYCE.  339 

The  want  of  serious  and  sustained  thinking  is  not  con- 
fined to  politics.  One  feels  it  even  more  as  rej>ai'ds  eco- 
nomical and  social  questions.  To  it  must  he  ascribed  the 
vitality  of  certain  prejudices  and  fallacies  which  could 
scarcely  survive  the  continuous  application  of  such  vi.i;<)r- 
ous  minds  as  one  finds  amon^ij  the  Americans.  Their  quick 
perceptions  serve  them  so  well  in  business  and  in  ordinary 
affairs  of  private  life  that  they  do  not  feel  the  need  for 
minute  investigation  and  patient  reflection  on  the  under- 
lying principles  of  things.  They  are  apt  to  ignore  diffl- 
culties,  and  when  they  can  no  longer  ignore  them,  they 
will  evade  them  rather  than  lay  siege  to  them  according 
to  the  rules  of  art.  The  sense  that  there  is  no  time  to  spare 
haunts  an  American  even  when  he  might  find  the  time,  and 
would  do  best  for  himself  by  finding  it. 

Some  one  will  say  that  an  aversion  to  steady  thinking 
belongs  to  the  average  man  everywhere.  Admitting  this, 
I  must  repeat  once  more  that  we  are  now  comparing  the 
Americans  not  with  average  men  in  other  countries,  but 
with  the  ideal  citizens  of  a  democracy.  We  are  trving 
them  by  the  standard  which  the  theory  of  their  government 
assumes.  In  other  countries  statesmen  or  philosophers  do, 
and  are  expected  to  do,  the  solid  thinking  for  the  bulk  of 
the  people.  Here  the  people  are  expected  to  do  it  for  them- 
selves. To  say  that  they  do  it  imperfectly  is  not  to  deny 
them  the  credit  of  doing  it  better  than  a  European  phi- 
losopher might  have  predicted. 

They  are  a  commercial  people,  whose  point  of  view  is 
primarily  that  of  persons  accustomed  to  reckon  profit  and 
loss.  Their  impulse  is  to  apply  a  direct  practical  test  to 
men  and  measures,  to  assume  that  the  men  who  have  got 
on  fastest  are  the  smartest  men,  and  that  a  scheme  which 
seems  to  pay  well  deserves  to  be  supported.  Abstract 
reasonings  they  dislike,  subtle  reasonings  they  suspect; 
they  accept  nothing  as  practical  which  is  not  plain,  down- 
right, apprehensible  by  an  ordinary  understanding.  Al- 
though open-minded,  so  far  as  willingness  to  listen  goes, 
they  are  hard  to  convince,  because  they  have  really  made 
up  their  minds  on  most  subjects,  having  adopted  the  pre- 
vailing notions  of  their  locality  or  party  as  truths  due  to 
their  own  reflection. 

It  nmy  seem  a  contradiction  to  remark  that  with  this 


340  IRISn    LITERATURE. 

shrewdness  and  the  sort  of  hardness  it  produces,  tliey  are 
uevertlieless  an  impressionable  people.  Yet  this  is  true. 
It  is  not  their  intellect,  however,  that  is  impressionable, 
but  their  imagination  and  emotions,  which  respond  in  un- 
expected waj's  to  appeals  made  on  behalf  of  a  cause  which 
seems  to  have  about  it  somethin.u'  noble  or  pathetic.  They 
are  capable  of  an  ideality  surpassing  that  of  Englishmen 
or  Frenchmen. 

They  are  an  unsettled  people.  In  no  State  of  the  Union 
is  the' bulk  of  the  population  so  fixed  in  its  residence  as 
everywhere  in  Europe;  in  many  it  is  almost  nomadic.  No- 
body feels  rooted  to  the  soil.  Here  to-day  and  gone  to- 
morrow, he  cannot  readily  contract  habits  of  trustful  de- 
I)end('nce  on  his  neighbors.^  Community  of  interest,  or 
of  lu'lief  in  such  a  cause  as  temperance,  or  protection  for 
native  industry,  unites  liim  for  a  time  with  others  simi- 
larly minded,  but  congenial  spirits  seldom  live  long 
enough  together  to  form  a  school  or  type  of  local  opinion 
whicli  develops  strength  and  becomes  a  proselytizing  force. 
Perhaps  this  tends  to  prevent  the  growth  of  variety  in 
opinion.  When  a  man  arises  with  some  power  of  original 
thought  in  politics,  he  is  feeble  if  isolated,  and  is  depressed 
by  his  insignificance,  whereas  if  he  grows  up  in  favorable 
soil  with  sympathetic  minds  around  him,  whom  he  can  in 
prolonged  intercourse  permeate  with  his  ideas,  he  learns 
to  speak  with  confidence  and  soars  on  the  wings  of  his 
disciples.  ^Vhether  or  no  there  be  truth  in  this  suggestion, 
one  who  considers  the  variety  of  conditions  under  which 
men  live  in  America  may  find  ground  for  surprise  that 
there  should  ])e  so  few  iTide]»endent  schools  of  opinion. 

But  even  while  an  unsettled,  they  are  nevertheless  an 
associative,  because  a  symijathetic  people.  Although  the 
items  are  in  constant  motion,  they  have  a  strong  attraction 
for  one  another.  Each  man  catches  his  neighbor's  senti- 
ment more  quickly  and  easily  than  happens  with  the 
English.  That  sort  of  reserve  and  isolation,  that  tendency 
ratlier  to  repel  than  to  invite  eonfid(!nce,  which  foreigners 
attribute  to  the  Englisliman,  though  it  belongs  rather  to 
the  upper  and  middle  class  than  to  the  nation  generally,  is, 

*  Forty  y«^ars  ago  tliis  was  mucli  less  true  of  New  England  than  it  is 
to-day.  Thf-re  are  districts  in  the  South  where  the  population  is  stagnant, 
but  these  are  backward  districts,  not  affecting  the  opinion  of  the  country. 


J  AM  E  Si    BRYCE.  341 

thoup,li  not  absent,  yet  less  marked  in  America.^  It  seems 
to  be  one  of  the  notes  of  difference  between  the  two 
branches  of  the  race.  In  the  United  States,  since  each  man 
likes  to  feel  that  his  ideas  raise  in  other  minds  the  same 
emotions  as  in  his  own,  a  sentiment  or  impnlse  is  rapidly 
propa<;ated  and  quickly  conscious  of  its  strength.  Add  to 
this  the  aptitude  for  organization  which  their  history  and 
institutions  have  educed,  and  one  sees  how  the  tendency  to 
form  and  the  talent  to  work  combinations  for  a  political 
or  any  other  object  has  become  one  of  the  great  features 
of  the  countrj^  Hence,  too,  the  immense  strength  of 
party.  It  rests  not  only  on  interest  and  habit  and  the 
sense  of  its  value  as  a  means  of  working  the  government, 
but  also  on  the  sympathetic  element  and  instinct  of  combi- 
nation ingrained  in  the  national  character. 

They  are  a  changeful  people.  Not  fickle,  for  they  are 
if  anything  too  tenacious  of  ideas  once  adopted,  too  fast 
bound  by  party  ties,  too  willing  to  pardon  the  errors  of  a 
cherished  leader.  But  they  have  what  chemists  call  low 
specific  heat;  they  grow  warm  suddenly  and  cool  as  sud- 
denly; they  are  liable  to  swift  and  vehement  outbursts  of 
feeling  which  rush  like  wildfire  across  the  country,  gaining 
glow  like  the  wheel  of  a  railwaj^  car,  by  the  accelerated 
motion.  The  very  similarity  of  ideas  and  equalitA"  of  con- 
ditions which  makes  them  hard  to  convince  at  first  makes 
a  conviction  once  implanted  run  its  course  the  more 
triumphantly.  They  seem  all  to  take  flame  at  once,  be- 
cause what  has  told  upon  one  has  told  in  the  same 
way  upon  all  the  rest,  and  the  obstructing  and  separating 
barriers  which  exist  in  Europe  scarcely  exist  here.  No- 
where is  the  saying  so  applicable  that  nothing  succeeds 
like  success.  The  native  American  or  so-called  Know- 
Nothing  party  had  in  two  years  from  its  foundation  be- 
come a  tremendous  force,  running,  and  seeming  for  a  time 
likely  to  carry,  its  own  presidential  candidate.  In  three 
years  more  it  was  dead  without  hope  of  revival.    Now  and 

1 1  do  not  mean  that  Americans  are  more  apt  to  unbosom  tliemselres  to 
strangers,  but  that  they  have  rather  more  adaptivcness  than  the  English, 
and  are  less  disposed  to  stand  alone  and  care  nothing  for  the  opinion  of 
others.  It  is  worth  noticing  that  Americans  traveling  abroad  seem  to 
get  more  easily  into  touch  with  the  inhabitants  of  the  country  than  the 
English  do  :  nor  have  they  the  English  habit  of  calling  those  inhabitants — 
Frenchmen,  for  instance,  or  Germans — "  the  natives." 


3t2  IRIiSH    LITERATURE. 

tlion,  as  for  instance  in  the  election  of  1874-75,  there  comes 
a  rush  of  feelin;^  so  sndden  and  tremendous,  that  the  name 
of  Tidal  Wave  has  been  invented  to  describe  it. 

After  this  it  may  seem  a  paradox  to  add  that  the  Amer- 
icans are  a  conservative  pi^ople.  Yet  any  one  who  observes 
the  power  of  habit  among  them,  the  tenacity  with  which 
old  institutions  and  usages,  legal  and  theological  formulas, 
have  been  clung  (o,  will  admit  the  fact.  A  love  for  what 
is  old  and  established  is  in  their  English  blood.  Moreover, 
prosperity  hel])s  to  make  them  conservative.  They  are 
satisfied  with  the  world  they  live  in,  for  they  have  found 
it  a  good  world,  in  which  they  have  grown  rich  and  can  sit 
under  their  own  vine  and  fig  tree,  none  making  them 
afraid.  They  are  proud  of  their  history  and  of  their  Con- 
stitution, which  has  come  out  of  the  furnace  of  civil  war 
with  scarcely  the  smell  of  fire  ni)on  it.  It  is  little  to  say 
that  they  do  not  seek  change  for  the  sake  of  change,  be- 
cause the  nations  that  do  this  exist  only  in  the  fancy  of 
alarmist  phih)sophers.  There  are  nations,  however,  whose 
impatience  of  existing  evils,  or  whose  proneness  to  be  al- 
lured by  visions  of  a  brigliter  future,  makes  them  under- 
estimate the  risk  of  change,  nations  that  will  pull  up  the 
plant  to  see  whether  it  has  begun  to  strike  root.  This  is 
not  the  way  of  the  Americans.  They  are  no  doubt  ready  to 
listen  to  suggestions  from  any  quarter.  They  do  not  con- 
sider that  an  institution  is  justified  by  its  existence,  but 
admit  everytliing  to  be  matter  for  criticism.  Their  keenly 
competitive  spirit  and  pride  in  their  own  ingenuity  have 
made  tiiem  quicker  than  any  other  people  to  adopt  and 
adapt  inventions:  teI('|)Iiones  were  in  use  in  every  little 
town  over  the  West,  whih'  in  the  City  of  London  men  were 
just  b<'ginning  to  wonder  whether  they  could  be  made  to 
pay.  I  have  remarked  in  an  earlier  chapter  tliat  the  fond- 
ness for  trying  ex])eriments  has  produced  a  good  deal  of 
hasty  Icgishition,  especially  in  the  newer  States,  and  that 
SOUK*  of  it  lias  already  l)een  abandoned.  But  these  admis- 
sions do  not  affect  the  main  proposition.  The  Americans 
are  at  liottom  a  conservative  peoi)le,  in  virtue  both  of  the 
deep  instinets  of  tlieir  race  and  of  that  practical  shrewd- 
ness which  recognizes  the  value  of  permanence  and  solidity 
in  institutions.  They  are  conservative  in  their  funda- 
mental  beliefs,  in  the  sfi'ucturc  of  their  governments,  in 


JAMEfi    BRYCE.  343 

their  social  and  domestic  usaj;es.  They  are  like  a  tree 
whose  pendulous  shoots  (luiver  and  rustle  with  the  li<;htest 
breeze,  while  its  roots  enfold  the  rock  with  a  grasp  which 
storms  cannot  loosen. 


THE    POSITION     OF    WOMEN     IN    THE   UNITED 

STATES. 

From  the  '  American  Commonwealth.' 

Social  intercourse  between  youths  and  maidens  is  every- 
where more  easy  and  unrestrained  than  in  England  or 
(lermany,  not  to  speak  of  France.  Yet  there  are  consid- 
erable differences  between  the  Eastern  cities,  whose  usages 
have  begun  to  approxinuite  to  those  of  Europe,  and  other 
parts  of  the  country.  In  the  rural  districts,  and  generally 
all  over  the  West,  young  men  and  girls  are  permitted  to 
walk  together,  drive  together,  go  out  to  parties  and  even 
to  public  entertainments  together,  without  the  presence 
of  any  third  person  who  can  be  supposed  to  be  looking  after 
or  taking  charge  of  the  girl.  So  a  girl  may,  if  she  pleases, 
keep  up  a  correspondence  with  a  young  man,  nor  will  her 
parents  think  of  interfering.  She  will  have  lier  own 
friends,  who  when  they  call  at  her  house  ask  for  her,  and 
are  received  by  her,  it  may  be  alone;  because  they  are  not 
deemed  to  be  necessarily  the  friends  of  her  parents  also, 
nor  even  of  her  sisters. 

In  the  cities  of  the  Atlantic  States  it  is  now  thought 
scarcely  correct  for  a  young  man  to  take  a  young  lady  out 
for  a  solitary  drive;  and  in  few  sets  would  he  be  permitted 
to  escort  her  alone  to  the  theater.  But  girls  still  go  with- 
out chaperons  to  dances,  the  hostess  being  deemed  to  act 
as  chaperon  for  all  her  guests;  and  as  regards  both  corre- 
spondence and  the  right  to  have  one's  own  circle  of  ac- 
quaintances, the  usage  even  of  New  York  or  Boston  allows 
more  liberty  than  does  that  of  London  or  Edinburgh.  It 
was  at  one  time,  and  it  may  possibly  still  be,  not  uncom- 
mon for  a  group  of  young  people  who  know  one  another 
well  to  make  up  an  autumn  "  party  in  the  woods."  They 
choose  some  mountain  and  forest  region,  such  as  the 
Adirondack  Wilderness  west  of  Lake  Champlain,  engage 


344  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

throe  or  four  £»;iiides,  embark  with  guns  and  iishing-rods, 
tents,  bhinkets,  and  a  stock  of  groeeries,  and  pass  in  boats 
np  the  rivers  and  aeross  the  hdves  of  this  wild  country 
tlirouiih  sixty  or  seventy  miles  of  trackless  forest,  to  their 
chosen  caiupiuii-ground  at  the  foot  of  some  tall  rock  that 
rises  from  the  still  crystal  of  the  lake.  Here  they  build 
tiieir  bark  hut,  and  spread  their  beds  of  the  elastic  and 
fragrant  hemlock  boughs;  the  youths  roam  about  during 
the  day,  tracking  the  deer,  the  girls  read  and  work  and 
bake  tlie  corn-cakes;  at  night  there  is  a  merry  gathering 
round  the  fire  or  a  row  in  the  soft  moonlight.  On  these 
ex})editions  brothers  will  take  their  sisters  and  cousins, 
who  bring  perhaps  some  lady  friends  with  them;  the 
bi'others'  friends  will  come  too;  and  all  will  live  together 
in  a  fraternal  way  for  weeks  or  months,  though  no  elderly 
relative  or  married  lady  be  of  the  party. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  pleasure  of  life  is  sensibly 
increased  by  the  greater  freedom  which  transatlantic 
custom  peruiits;  and  as  the  Americans  insist  that  no  bad 
results  have  followed,  one  notes  with  regret  that  freedom 
declines  in  the  places  which  deem  themselves  most  civil- 
ized. American  girls  have  been,  so  far  as  a  stranger  can 
ascertain,  less  disposed  to  what  are  called  "  fast  ways  " 
than  girls  of  the  corresponding  classes  in  England,  and 
exercise  in  this  i-espect  a  pretty  rigorous  censorship  over 
one  another.  But  when  two  young  people  lind  pleasure 
in  one  another's  company,  they  can  see  as  much  of  each 
other  as  thej'  please,  can  talk  and  walk  together  fre- 
quently, can  show  that  they  are  mutually  interested,  and 
yet  need  have  little  fear  of  being  misunderstood  either 
b}'  one  another  or  by  the  rest  of  the  world.  It  is  all  a  mat- 
ter of  custom.  In  the  West,  custom  sanctions  this  easy 
friendsliip;  in  the  Atlantic  cities,  so  soon  as  people  have 
come  to  find  something  exceptional  in  it,  constraint  is  felt, 
and  a  conventional  etiquette  like  that  of  the  Old  World 
begins  to  replace  the  innocent  simplicity  of  the  older  time, 
tlie  test  of  whose  merit  may  be  gatliered  from  the  universal 
persuasion  in  America  that  happy  marriages  are  in  the 
middh^  and  upper  ranks  more  comuion  than  in  Europe, 
and  tliat  this  is  due  to  the  ampler  opportunities  which 
young  men  and  women  have  of  lejirning  one  another's 
characters  and  habits  l)efore  becoming  betrothed.     Most 


JAMES   BRYCE.  345 

girls  have  a  larger  range  of  intimate  acquaintances  than 
girls  have  in  Europe,  intercourse  is  franker,  there  is  less 
difference  between  the  manners  of  home  and  the  manners 
of  general  society.  The  conclusions  of  a  stranger  are  in 
such  matters  of  no  value;  so  I  can  only  re])eat  that  I  have 
never  met  any  judicious  American  lady  who,  however  well 
she  knew  the  Old  World,  did  not  think  that  the  New  World 
customs  conduced  more  both  to  the  pleasantness  of  life 
Ix'forc^  marriage,  and  to  constancy  and  concord  after  it. 

In  no  country  ai'c  women,  and  especially  young  women, 
so  much  made  of.  The  world  is  at  tlunr  feet.  Society  seems 
organized  for  the  purpose  of  providing  enjoyment  for  them. 
Parents,  uncles,  aunts,  elderly  friends,  even  brothers,  are 
ready  to  make  their  comfort  and  convenience  bend  to  the 
girls'  wishes.  The  Avife  has  fewer  opportunities  for  reign- 
ing over  the  world  of  amusements,  because  except  among 
the  richest  i)Cople  she  has  more  to  do  in  household  manage- 
ment than  in  England,  owing  to  the  scarcity  of  servants; 
but  she  holds  in  her  own  house  a  more  prominent  if  not 
a  more  substantially  powerful  position  than  in  England  or 
even  in  France,  With  the  German  hausfrau,  who  is  too 
often  content  to  be  a  mere  housewife,  there  is  of  course 
no(  comparison.  The  best  proof  of  the  superior  place 
American  ladies  occupy  is  to  be  found  in  the  notions  they 
profess  to  entertain  of  the  relations  of  an  English  married 
pair.  They  talk  of  the  English  wife  as  little  better  than 
a  slave;  declaring  that  when  they  stay  with  English 
friends,  or  receive  an  English  couple  in  America,  they  see 
the  wife  always  deferring  to  the  husband  and  the  husband 
always  assuming  that  his  pleasure  and  convenience  are 
to  prevail.  The  European  wife,  they  admit,  often  gets  her 
own  way,  but  she  gets  it  by  tactful  arts,  by  flattery  or 
wheedling  or  playing  on  the  man's  weaknesses;  whereas 
in  America  the  husband's  duty  and  desire  is  to  gratify  the 
wife,  and  render  to  her  those  services  which  the  English 
tyrant  exacts  from  his  consort.  One  may  often  hear  an 
American  matron  commiserate  a  friend  who  has  married 
in  Europe,  while  the  daughters  declare  in  chorus  that  they 
will  never  follow  the  example.  Laughable  as  all  this  may 
seem  to  English  women,  it  is  perfectly  true  that  the  theory 
as  well  as  the  practice  of  conjugal  life  is  not  the  same  in 
America  as  in  England.    There  are  overbearing  husbands 


340  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

in  America,  but  they  are  more  eoudemned  by  the  opiuion 
of  the  ueiiihborhood  than  in  Enghind.  There  are  exacting 
wives  in  Enghind,  but  their  husbands  are  more  pitied  than 
woukl  be  the  case  in  America. 

In  neitlier  conutry  can  one  say  that  tlie  principle  of  per- 
fect equality  reigns;  for  in  America  the  balance  inclines 
nearly,  though  not  quite,  as  much  in  favor  of  the  wife  as  it 
does  in  England  in  favor  of  the  husband.  No  one  man  can 
have  a  sufficiently  large  acquaintance  in  both  countries 
to  entitle  his  individual  ojunion  on  the  results  to  much 
weight.  So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  collect  views  from 
those  observers  who  have  lived  in  both  countries,  they  are 
in  favor  of  the  American  practice,  perhaps  because  the 
theory  it  is  based  on  departs  less  from  pure  equality  than 
does  that  of  England.  These  observers  do  not  mean  that 
the  recognition  of  women  as  equals  or  superiors  makes 
them  any  better  or  sweeter  or  wiser  than  Englishwomen; 
but  rather  that  the  principle  of  equality,  by  correcting  the 
characteristic  faults  of  men,  and  especially  their  selfishness 
and  vanity,  is  more  conducive  to  the  concord  and  happi- 
ness of  a  home. 

They  conceive  that  to  make  the  wife  feel  her  indepen- 
dence and  responsibility  more  strongly  than  she  does  in  Eu- 
rope tends  to  brace  and  expand  her  character;  while  conju- 
gal affection,  usually  stronger  in  her  than  in  the  husband, 
inasmuch  as  there  are  fewer  competing  interests,  saves  her 
from  abusing  the  j)recodence  yielded  to  her.  This  seems 
to  be  true;  but  I  have  heard  others  maintain  that  the  Amer- 
ican system,  since  it  does  not  require  the  wife  to  forego  her 
own  wishes,  tends,  if  not  to  make  her  self-indulgent  and 
capricious,  yet  slightly  to  impair  the  more  delicate  charms 
of  character;  as  it  is  written,  "  It  is  more  blessed  to  give 
than  to  receive." 


ENGLAND    AND    IRELAND. 

From  '  Two  Centuries  of  Irish  History. ' 

There  wonld  be  little  profit  in  trying  to  apportion  be- 
tween Enixland  and  thf  dinVi'cnt  classes  and  parties  in 
Ireland  tlie  blnnic  for  the  misfortunes  of  the  last  ninety 


JA3IES   BRYCE.  347 

years.     When  it  is  perceived  that  all  these  inisfortunes 
were  the  natural  result  of  the  position  in  which  the  two 
islands  found  themselves,  the  charge  of  deliberate  niali.u- 
nity  which  uuin.y  Irishmen  have  brought  a|;ainst  En<;lan(l 
falls  to  the  ground.    The  faults  of  England  were  ignorance 
and    heedlessness — faults    always    found    where   the   gov- 
erned are  far  from  the  sight  of  the  governors,  and  misgov- 
ernment  brings  no  direct  or  immediate  penalty  in  its  train. 
United  not  to  the  Irish  people  as  a  vrhole,  but  to  a  caste 
which  was  hardly  a  part  of  that  people,  and  knowing  that 
caste  to  be  bound  to  lierself,  she  allowed  it  to  govern  in  her 
name.     She  did  not  heed,  because  she  scarcely  heard,  the 
complaints  of  the  oppressed  race.     It  is  true  that  Lord 
Lieutenants  and   Chief   Secretaries   were   almost   always 
Englishmen.     But   going    to    Ireland    with    no    previous 
knowledge  of  the  country,  and  living  there  among  the 
Ascendency,  they  saw  with  its  eyes  and  heard  with  its  ears. 
Even  statesmen  like  Peel  and  Goulburn  appear  in  Irish 
history  as  the  mere  mouthpieces  of  the  lawyers  and  offi- 
cials who  surrounded  them,  and  accepted  the  brutal  reme- 
dies for  disorder  which  those  officials,  following  the  old 
traditions,  suggested  to  them.     Nor,  when  the  turn  of  the 
Whigs  came,  did  they  cordially  recognize  the  equality  of 
rights  and  duties  to  which  the  Catholics  had  been  admitted 
in  1829,  but  sought  to  deal  with  them  as  if  they  were  still 
an  inferior  class.    Had  England,  even  that  unsympathetic 
oligarchy  which  ruled  England  till  1832,  governed  Ireland 
directly,  influenced  by  no  one  class  in  Ireland  more  than 
any  other,  she  could  have  hardly  failed  to  remove  many  of 
the  evils  of  the  country.    Had  she  left  administration  and 
legislation  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  Ascendency,  ex- 
cluding them  from  the  legislature  of  Britain,  the  adminis- 
tration would  probably  have  been  no  worse,  and  a  spirit  of 
Irish  patriotism,  a  seuse  of  responsibility  to  the  mass  of 
the  inhabitants,  and  dread  of  their  displeasure,  such  as 
seemed  to  be  growing  up  in  the  last  half  of  the  preceding 
century,  might  have  arisen  to  weld  the  Anglo-Irish  and  the 
native  Irish  into  one  people.     It  was  the  combination  of 
dependency   government   with    the   government   of   a    de- 
nationalized caste  that  proved  fatal  during  the  first  sev- 
enty years  of  this  century,  as  during  the  first  eighty  of  the 
century  preceding. 


34S  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

The  faults  of  the  Irish  people  are  no  less  clearly  trace- 
able to  the  conditions  under  which  they  lived.  Miseries 
uni^aralleled  in  modern  Europe,  miseries  which  legislation 
did  not  even  attempt  to  remove,  produced  agrarian  crimes 
and  lawless  cond)iuations.  The  sense  of  wild  justice  that 
underlay  these  crimes  and  combinations  bred  an  ingrained 
hostility  to  law,  and  a  disposition  to  sympathize  with  those 
who  braved  it.  Englishmen  who  admit  this  explanation 
of  the  most  distressing  feature  of  Irish  peasant  life,  are 
surprised  that  it  should  still  subsist.  But  though  it  sprang 
up  in  the  middle  of  last  century,  the  conditions  that  pro- 
duced it — that  is  to  say,  agrarian  oppression  and  the 
absence  of  equal  justice  locally  administered — remained 
long  after  the  I'nion  in  scarcely  diminished  potency.  With 
the  aversion  to  law  there  came  naturally  an  aversion  to  the 
so-called  ''  English  Government,"  and  to  England  herself. 
It  was  intensified  among  the  leaders  of  the  people  by  the 
events  of  1798,  and  perpetuated  by  the  contempt  with 
which  Irish  patriotism  had  been  treated  in  England — a 
contempt  in  curious  contrast  with  the  sympathy  whicli 
England  warmly  and  frequently  expressed  for  national 
mov(»ments  elsewhere. 

England  expected  loyalty  from  the  Irish,  especially  af- 
ter she  thought  she  had  honored  them  by  union  with  her- 
self. Rut  what  was  there  to  make  them  loyal  either  to  the 
Crown  or  to  the  English  connection?  Loyalty  is  a  plant 
which  does  not  spring  up  of  itself.  A  healthy  seed  must 
be  sown,  and  sown  in  a  congenial  soil.  Loyalty  to  the 
Crown  is  in  England  the  result  of  centuries  of  national 
greatness,  of  a  thousand  recollections  grouped  round  the 
head  of  the  State,  who  personifies  the  unity  and  glory  of 
the  nation.  In  Ireland  the  recollections  were  recollec- 
tions of  conquest  mingled  with  not  a  fcAV  of  cruelty  and 
treachei-y.  The  dominant  caste,  which  had  gone  to  the 
vei'ge  of  rebellion  in  1782,  called  itself  loyal  when,  in  1798, 
the  subject  race  followed  the  (example  which  the  Volunteers 
liad  set.  This  caste  has  since  professed  attachment  to  the 
English  Crown.  Its  attachment  has  not  been  disinterested. 
'' Dofh  a  man  serve  (lod  for  naught?"  The  Ascendency 
had  solid  reasons  for  adhering  to  the  power  which  main- 
tained it  as  an  ascendency.  lint  the  otluT  Irish  nation  of 
ninety  years  ago,  the  nation  of  Celts  and  Eomau  Catholics, 


JAMES    BRYGE.  349 

had  no  iiioio  reason  for  loyalty  to  the  Kino;  of  En.u'land 
than  the  Christians  of  the  East  l»ave  for  loyalty  to  the 
Turkish  saltan.  Nor  have  the  Enj;ljsh  kings  souj^ht  to 
foster  loyalty  in  the  way  which  kini;s  find  most  effective, 
by  their  personal  presence.  Before  the  appearance  of 
James  II.,  followed  by  tlu?  conquering-  entrance  of  William 
III.,  only  three  sovereigns  had  set  foot  in  Ireland — Henry 
II.,  John,  and  Kichard  II.  Since  the  battle  of  the  Boyne 
only  one  royal  visit  was  paid,  that  of  George  IV.  in  1824, 
down  to  the  visit  of  her  present  Majesty  in  1849.^  On  both 
those  occasions  the  sovereign  was  received  with  the  great- 
est warmth.  Why  has  one  of  the  most  obvious  services  a 
monarchy  can  render  been  so  strangely  neglected? 

The  Avant  of  a  capacity  for  self-government,  which  is  so 
often  charged  upon  the  Irish,  does  not  need  to  be  explained 
by  an  inherent  defect  in  Celtic  peoples  when  it  is  remem- 
bered that  no  opportunity  of  acquiring  it  has  ever  been 
afforded  them.  Since  the  primitive  clan  organization  of 
the  native  race  was  dissolved  in  the  sixteenth  centur}', 
neither  local  nor  national  self-government  has  ever  existed 
in  Ireland,  until  the  recent  establishment  of  representa- 
tive municipal  institutions  in  the  larger  towns.  There 
were  practically  no  free  elections  of  members  of  the  House 
of  Commons  till  the  famous  Waterford  election  of  182G, 
and  even  after  that  year  an  election  was  almost  always  a 
struggle  between  temporal  intimidation  by  landlords  and 
spiritual  intimidation  by  priests.  The  Ballot  Act  of  1872 
is  the  true  beginning  of  Parliamentary  life  in  the  Irish 
counties,  and  seems  to  mark  a  turning-point  in  Irish 
history. 

That  Irish  political  leaders  have  usually  wanted  a  sense 
of  responsibility,  have  been  often  violent  in  their  language, 
agitators  and  rhetoricians  rather  than  statesmen,  is  unde- 
niable, and  must  be  borne  in  mind  when  England  is  blamed 
for  refusing  to  follow  their  advice.  But  vehemence  and 
recklessness  are  natural  to  men  who  had  no  responsibility, 
whom  no  one  dreamt  of  placing  in  administrative  posts, 
who  found  their  counsels  steadily  ignored.  They,  like  the 
people  from  whom  they  sprung,  had  no  training  in  self- 
government,  no  enlightened  class  to  correct  by  its  opinion 
their  extravagances.     Agitation  was  the  only  resource  of 

1  King  Edward  VII.  paid  Ireland  a  visit  in  1893.— [Ed. 


SnO  IRTSH   LITERATURE. 

tliose  who  shrank  from  conspiracy  or  despaired  of  insur- 
rection ;  and  the  habit  of  agitation  produced  a  t.ype  of  char- 
acter, as  Cervantes  says  that  evei-.v  man  is  tlie  son  of  his 
own  works.  Leadership  had,  with  some  honorable  excep- 
tions, become  divorced  from  education  and  property,  be- 
cause the  class  which  gave  leaders  to  the  nation  in  the 
thirty  years  before  the  Union  had  now  been  thoroughly 
denationalized, 

Tlie  retlection  may  occur  that  if  these  unhappy  features 
in  the  character  of  English  rule  and  the  temper  of  the 
Irish  people  during  the  last  two  centuries  were  the  result 
of  causes  acting  steadily  during  a  long  period  of  time,  a 
correspondingly  long  period  of  better  relations  will  be 
needed  to  efface  them.  ITistory,  however,  if  she  does  not 
absolutely  forbid,  certainly  does  not  countenance  such  a 
lu-ediction.  It  has  sometimes  happened  that  when  malig- 
nant conditions  have  vanished,  and  men's  feelings  under- 
gone a  thorough  change,  a  single  generation  has  been 
sntticient  to  wipe  out  ancient  animosities,  and  capacities 
for  industrial  or  intellectual  or  political  development  have 
been  disclosed  which  no  one  ventured  to  expect.  Necessity 
and  responsibility  are  the  best  teachers.  Even  the  dreary 
annals  of  Ireland  show  some  progress  from  century  to  cen- 
tury. In  a  time  like  ours,  changes  of  every  kind  move  fas- 
ter than  they  did  in  the  days  of  darkness  and  isolation; 
and,  though  there  are  moments  when  clouds  seem  to  settle 
down  over  Ireland  or  over  Europe  as  a  whole,  yet  if  we 
compare  the  condition  of  the  world  now  with  that  of  a 
century  ago,  we  find  ample  grounds  for  a  faith  in  the  in- 
creasing strength  of  the  forces  which  make  for  righteous- 
ness and  peace. 


WILLIAM  BUCKLEY. 

William  Buckley  has  made  a  great  success  in  a  novel  of  remark- 
able vigor  entitled  '  Croppies  Lie  Down' — and  his  shorter  stories,  of 
which  we  give  an  example,  are  read  Avith  much  appreciation  both 
here  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic. 


INNISCARRA. 

From  '  The  Gael '  (by  permission). 

He  regretted  that  he  had  not  gone  over  the  crest  of  Cur- 
ragh  Beg  invStead  of  follovring  the  slanting  road  b}^  its 
flank,  when  he  saw  who  stood  in  the  way,  her  form  white 
against  the  pines  of  Garrovagh  across  the  Lee.  The  sinking- 
sun,  too,  found  her  white  gown  and  the  cloudy  tresses  of 
living  gold  that  framed  her  lovely  face,  their  burnished 
plaits  crowning  the  spirited  bead  with  a  crown  that  queens 
might  envy.  She  was  carrying  the  milk  pail  and  supervis- 
ing the  erratic  progress  of  Drimmin,  the  little  cow  from 
the  Kingdom  of  Kerry,  Had  Drimmin  been  hunmn,  she 
would  have  described  her  most  obvious  characteristic  as 
firmness,  from  which  it  may  be  gathered  that  Maureen  Ni 
Carroll's  task  was  not  a  sinecure.  A  tuft  of  sweet  clover 
just  inside  a  neighboring  fence  having  attracted  her  atten- 
tion, she  promptly  entangled  her  horns  amid  the  wiring; 
this  made  the  girl  call  out,  shading  her  eyes,  then  she  saw 
Hugh  and  put  down  the  pail. 

Hugh  was  not  a  particularly  intelligent  young  man,  but 
the  light  of  fancy  had  not  been  dulled  in  his  unworn  eyes, 
and  the  sudden  expression  on  Maureen's  face  brought  a 
thought  so  perturbing  that  he  was  glad  to  occupy  himself 
with  Drimmin's  predicament,  the  girl  standing  by,  save  for 
the  brief  Gaelic  greeting,  wordless.  Drimmin  being  extri- 
cated, he  came  to  her  with  the  original  statement  that  it 
was  a  fine  evening. 

"  Come  here,"  replied  ^Maureen,  "  is  it  true  that  you  are 
goin'  to  list  below  there  at  Ballincollig?  " 

Hugh  threw  a  restless  glance  at  the  silvery  Lee. 
"  There  isn't  much  else  for  a  man  to  do  these  times,"  he 
said.    "  I  was  biddin'  'em  good-bye  at  Castle  Inch." 

351 


352  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

"  An'  YOU  're  not  goin'  back  to  Cloghroe  any  more? 
Then  it  's  true?  " 

'•  T  is,  begor;  tlie  mother  's  dead,  an'  two  cows.  There  's 
a  gale  due.'' 

"  Is  it  the  way  you  can't  farm?  " 

''  I  'm  able  to  do  that  right  enough,  but  the  life  is  slayery 
— not  a  bit  of  diyersion.     So,  what  would  I  do  it  for?  " 

She  looked  at  him.  "  Oroomin'  horses  an'  carryin'  pails 
isn't  much,  either,''  slie  retorted,  "  an'  that 's  what  most  of 
'em  are  doiu'  down  there." 

He  bent  his  brows  and  switched  his  leg  with  the  Tcipcen  * 
he  was  already  learning  to  carry  like  a  riding- whip. 
"  It  "s  a  fine  life  all  the  same — a  soldier's,"  he  said,  dream- 
ily, thinkiui;  of  the  reyiew  he  had  seen  at  Cork  Park. 

"  War  isn't  like  that,"  she  replied  with  Irish  intuition, 
"  an'  if  it  was,  there  's  the  shame  of  goin'  out  to  kill  people 
that  neyer  did  you  harm,  for  people  who  made  3  our  coun- 
try what  it  is." 

"  It 's  a  fine  life  all  the  same,"  he  reiterated,  "  an'  there  's 
promotion — '' 

"  Fcir  you !  "  she  retorted.  '^  Is  it  the  way  you  are  goin' 
to  turn  sou  per?" 

He  winced.     "  No  fear  of  that !  "  he  said. 

"  An'  it 's  nice,  decent  comrades  you  '11  have — sure,  you 
must  have  lieard  what  some  of  'em  did  over  at  Inniscarra 
once?     Kolibin'  the  dead  I  " 

"  There  *s  good  and  bad  everywhere." 

"  An'  what  will  they  give  you  for  goin'  among  'em?  " 

He  repeated  the  recruiting  sergeant's  patter;  she  tore 
it  to  shreds  in  the  light  of  some  exceedingly  straight  state- 
ments made  by  a  cousin  who  had  the  honor  of  giving 
twenty  years  of  a  now  worthless  life  in  exchange  for  a  shil- 
ling a  day — and  stoppages.  He  hardly  heard,  he  was  thun- 
dering away  in  a  x^hantom  pageant  lit  by  Fantasy's  glow, 
with  all  the  horses  at  the  charge  and  all  the  swords  aslant. 
Through  the  vision  a  few  trumpet  notes  flaunted  up  the 
valh'V,  a  voice  that  called,  and  he  turned  away. 

She  understood,  her  beaut  ifnl  brows  running  straight  a 
monu'nt.  "Sure  I  wouldn't  mind,"  she  said,  "it  would 
be  grand  if  it  were  for  Ireland!  "  Then  her  cheek  burned, 
and  she  took  up  the  pitcher. 

1  Kipeen,  a  short  stick. 


WILLIAM   BUCKLEY.  353 

"  Good-bye,  Maiireeu,"  he  said.  He  feared  liis  tongue 
might  play  him  false. 

"  ^lau  lent/'  ^  she  answered  over  one  curved  shoulder, 
"  Beannact  De  Ic  f  anani! ''  ^ 

When  he  had  gone  a  short  distance  he  looked  back. 
She  was  following  the  mountain  path,  her  gown  diapha- 
nous at  the  sides,  the  hair  a  golden  mist  about  the  graceful 
head.  In  a  moment,  sky,  water,  wood,  and  brooding  hill 
seemed  instinct  with  sudden  significance;  diml}^  he  knew 
the  picture  would  remain  until  he  died. 

He  went  on  with  laggard  step,  for  his  angel  was  plead- 
ing to  the  spirit  within,  and  the  evening  scene  was  plead- 
ing also  in  the  tongue  we  learn  too  late.  The  sunlight 
passed  ere  he  reached  the  bridge  spanning  the  Bride,  and 
here  he  paused  before  descending  the  dip.  The  little  valley, 
with  its  scattered  pines  and  shadowy  mist  and  steep  banks 
under  St.  Cera's  Athnowen  stretched  away  to  the  right; 
he  traced  it  mentally  up  to  ancient  Kilcrea  and  Farran 
height  throned  upon  the  Clara  slopes  above  the  sunny 
plains  and  rolling  hills  of  Muskerry.  He  looked  across  to 
Inniscarra's  pebbly  strand,  and  followed  the  invisible  road 
winding  beneath  the  sloping  flank  of  Garravagh  on  to  the 
sweet  Dripsey  stream.  It  was  a  pleasant  country,  good  to 
live  in,  better  to  die  for,  best  to  fight  for,  as  strangers 
found,  though  God  knoAvs,  dull  enough,  because  its  people, 
having  lost  their  spirit  with  their  tongue,  had  become  boor- 
ish imitators  parroting  stupid  or  bestial  things.  But,  be- 
fore him  swelled  the  broad  Lee,  arched  by  the  time-worn 
bridge  so  many  quiet  feet  had  crossed,  bearing  generations 
of  men  to  their  sins  or  their  sorrows  or  their  joys,  and  it 
seemed  to  cut  his  life  in  twain,  for  beyond  lay  the  walled 
barrack  where  the  braided  jackets,  and  gleaming  swords, 
and  prancing  chargers  waited. 

He  resumed  his  way,  harassed  by  wearying  thoughts. 
So  oppressed,  he  ascended  the  narrow  road,  fringed  on  one 
side  by  young  beech,  and  oak,  and  drooping  ash.  At  the 
other,  beside  the  Lee,  the  "  Island  of  the  Dead  "  rose  lovely 
and  lonely,  its  elms  reflected  below,  and  the  bell  tower  of 
an  alien  faith  that  to  its  years  is  but  as  the  life  of  a  weed 
against  the  brow  of  old  Garrovagh.    An  aged  priest  whose 

1  Slan  leat,  Good-bye.        2  Beannact  De  le  V  anam!    God  rest  your  soul. 
23 


3o4  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

^lassos  he  had  oftoii  served  told  him  that  the  o-reat  nup;h 
()'>i'eil  oiu-e  halted  here,  what  time  he  marched  south,  aud 
the  i*laxoii  clnirls  hid  behind  the  walls  of  IJarry's  fortress, 
and  Ormond  hovered  afar.  Of  course  he  knew  nothing 
more;  beinii;  born  in  that  land,  he  was  ignorant  of  its  story 
as  the  heron  his  tread  had  disturbed  or  the  wood  pigeons 
cooing  overhead.  All  he  comprehended  was  that  O'Neil 
liad  been  a  great  soldier  who  beat  the  English  long  ago, 
and  that  he  would  be  a  soldier  too.  The  glamour  of  the 
camp  lured  his  ignorance,  he  thought  proudly  of  the  or- 
dered lines,  the  gallant  dress,  the  tossing  manes,  the  flash- 
ing steel,  the  splendor  of  the  charge.  Nor  was  he  to  be 
blamed ;  the  grace  of  color  is  not  the  less  because  it  clothes 
a  clod,  the  bright  blade  will  Hash  its  thrilling  message 
though  held  by  unworthy  hands,  the  gallant  steed  go 
thundering  on  in  beauty  and  in  strength,  though  bestrid- 
den by  a  coward's  bones. 

lie  went  more  rapidly,  glancing  at  the  meadow  land  op- 
posite, ghostly  now  l)eueath  white  river  mists,  and  then 
l)aused,  peaked  shapes  taking  form  and  substance  there. 
"Tents I''  he  whisi)ered;  "I  wonder  I  didn't  see  'em  be- 
fore!" The  air  appeared  to  strike  suddenly  cold.  He 
shivered.  ''  It  must  be  a  new  regiment  under  canvas,"  he 
muttered ;  "  maybe  the  sergeant  is  there." 

He  pushed  on  rapidly,  a  confused  murmur  meeting  his 
ear,  and  soon  gained  the  turn  of  the  old  bridge,  whence 
a  road  winds  up  to  the  coach  road  running  on  to  Macroom. 
Down  this  a  detail  of  horsemen  trotted;  they  carried 
lances,  but  wei-e  not  lancers.  They  were  soldiers  wearing 
lightly  corselet  and  helmet  that  glimmered  sharply  in  the 
gathering  dusk.  One  was  singing;  to  him  the  tongue  was 
almost  unknown,  but  the  melody  woke  memories.  He 
caught  a  word  here  and  there  as  the  rest  took  it  up, 
strangely  familiar,  strangely  remote — it  was  the  Colleen 
Dhas. 

Instinctively  he  felt  among  friends  and  was  seized  with 
a  sudden  desire  to  know  more  about  those  men,  those  real 
soldiers,  who  carried  themselves  so  gallantly  and  did  not 
growl  at  their  curveting  steeds. 

"  CJood  night,  men,"  he  said  as  they  passed,  but  the 
troopers  gave  no  sign,  and  went  on  across  the  bridge,  whose 
parajtet  had  grown  lower,  he  thought,  turning  then  off  to 


WILLIAM    BUCKLEY.  355 

the  right  and  disappoaring  into  the  field  beyond.  A  flood 
of  atrange,  mad  fancies  passed  through  his  mind,  making 
his  heart  beat  and  his  ears  tlirob  as  if  witli  tlie  rattle  of 
innumerable  drums.  lie  followed,  and  saw  that  the  wide 
expanse  was  dotted  by  dark  brown  tents  stretching  in  lines 
to  the  bank  of  the  Lee,  where  a  road  wound  its  white 
length.  He  had  not  been  in  the  place  for  some  time  past. 
"  I  wonder  why  they  made  that?  "  he  muttered;  "  I  didn't 
notice  it  a  while  ago.  " 

It  was  not  new,  to-day  it  lies  beneath  grass  and  hedge, 
unthought  of  by  one  in  the  hundreds  Avho  tread  the  path 
running  under  Garrovagh. ,  Habit  carried  him  forward 
and  he  went,  his  chin  on  his  shoulder,  watching  the  tents 
and  the  road  curving  up  to  a  little  eminence  near  a  house 
with  latticed  windows  he  knew  well,  but  could  not  see,  be- 
cause the  place  was  filled  by  mounted  men,  above  them  a 
banner  unrolled — a  banner  he  had  never  seen  before. 

At  the  end  of  the  long,  straight  way  he  followed  was  an- 
other group.  They  too,  wore  glistening  armor,  spears 
glinting  cold  above  the  helmet  feathers.  They  all  wore 
swords,  handsomer  than  those  he  had  admired  hitherto. 
None  carried  carbines  he  noted,  but  did  not  like  them  the 
worse  for  that,  having  an  instinctive  preference  for  the 
"  beautiful  white  weapon "  and  that  other  the  old-time 
man-of-arms  called  the  Queen  of  Weapons.  Some  were 
gathered  curiously  about  the  mile  stone  let  in  the  wall  of 
the  Cyclist's  Rest,  the  mile  stone  that  has  told  "  6  "  to 
so  many  centuries  of  weary  or  careless  eyes,  but  he  did  not 
observe  the  house  itself,  wondering  whether  the  soldiers 
would  stop  him.  One,  standing  in  mid  road,  seemed  in- 
clined to  do  so,  as  he  towered  there,  one  foot  advanced,  a 
hand  on  his  belt,  the  other  grasping  the  tall  spear  that 
gleamed  above  his  six  feet  of  steel  and  manhood — a  very 
type  and  symbol  of  glorious  war. 

As  he  passed  he  uttered  a  faltering  "  Beannact  leat ! " 
The  man  looked  down  upon  him  calmly,  a  white  face  under 
the  plumed  headpiece,  impassive  as  Garrovagh  itself,  and 
he  w^ent  his  way,  vaguely  ashamed,  heading  for  the  strange 
flag  fluttering  afar. 

As  he  approached  he  saw^  that  it  was  posted  near  a  spot 
where  a  cluster  of  houses  linger  at  the  debouching  of  a 
small  valley  threaded  by  a  forgotten  road  leading  north — 


356  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

a  backwater  on  the  shrunken  stream  of  Irish  life.  It  was 
of  the  camp  on  his  ri^ht  and  the  i\a*x  above  it  he  thought 
now,  the  flag  whereon  he  could  dimly  discern  a  red  hand 
and  a  motto  in  (iaelic.  All  round  were  men  in  chased 
armor,  mounted  on  spirited  steeds,  and  he  climbed  the 
hill  to  see  better. 

"  Glory  be  to  God  1 ''  he  whispered,  "  there  's  a  power  of 
•em  down  as  far  as  (J  oat  Island  an'  the  Kennels  I  I  wonder 
wliy  they  talk  Irish — where 's  the  barrack  wall  at  all?  " 

The  English  ^^all  had  disappeared,  but  the  waste  of 
Goat  Island  was  alive  with  stirring  multitudes  and 
sliadowy  with  the  smoke  of  smoldering  camp  fires. 
Hoarse  commands  rang  out,  he  saw  the  tents  were  being 
struck  and  ]»ili'd  on  carts  with  a  method  he  thought  ex- 
clusivelv  British.  The  same  was  being  done  in  the 
meadows  below,  rank  after  rank  of  men  falling  into  place 
rapidly,  the  baggage  train  splashing  through  the  shallows 
or  winding  by  the  river  road,  all  converging  toward  the 
banner  greeted  by  rolling  cheers.  Just  in  the  way,  glitter- 
ing above  the  rest,  was  a  man  on  a  splendid  charger.  Had 
tlie  watclier  not  lived  in  a  country  striving  to  kill  its  soul 
he  would  have  known  that  man  from  printed  book  and 
painted  canvas ;  as  it  was,  he  could  not  but  see  that  he  was 
"  strong  of  body,"  that  he  liad  a  higli  look  and  a  noble  air, 
a  certain  erectness  which  was  part  of  those  surrounding 
him. 

Tliere  v.ere  fresh  orders,  a  halt,  a  pause,  a  steady  dress- 
ing of  lines,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  on  the  outskirt  of  a 
mighty  crowd,  a  forest  of  lances.  The  man  on  the  horse 
raised  his  hand  and  spoke,  the  tongue  was  the  tongue  of 
the  men  who  sang  by  tiie  l)ridge,  the  men  who  controlled 
and  ordered  the  marching,  the  tongue  that  kept  the  last 
memory  of  Maureen  Ni  Carroll's  tones,  the  tongue  he  had 
striven  to  forget,  through  shame,  because  it  was  Irish. 
The  speech  was  short,  but  it  breathed  a  sentiment  he  knew 
was  seditious,  so  that  he  was  almost  afraid  to  liear;  but  the 
fear  died  as  the  spirit  of  the  words  challenged  his  own.  It 
spoke  of  unshaken  faith  in  Ireland,  unswerving  hatred  of 
her  unswerving  foe,  firm  resolve  to  do  or  die  for  the  glory 
of  God  and  the  honor  of  Eire. 

A  thundering  storm  of  sound  rey)lied,  the  wide  valley  re- 
echoed, old  Garrovagh  gave  back  the  magic  name  "  O'Neil." 


WILLIAM    BUCKLEY.  357 

The  marching  recommenced  to  the  music  of  war-pipes,  a 
song  rising  from  the  steady  ranks,  sprightly  and  fierce,  as 
they  went  quickly  in  review  by  the  Man  of  the  Yellow 
Ford.  It  drew  the  listener's  soul  through  his  ears,  and, 
heedless  of  all,  he  rushed  down  the  mountain  path  to  seek 
and  follow,  if  it  were  to  death  I 

When  he  reached  the  cross  all  was  still,  the  summer  eve 
was  balmy  once  again,  across  the  Lee  the  barrack  wall 
showed  gray,  only  the  rabbits  were  stirring  on  Goat  Island, 
the  old  bridge  curved  over  the  stream,  Curragh  Beg  looked 
down  on  all.  But  the  river  spoke  at  the  weir,  and  now  he 
understood;  a  trumpet  blast  sang  from  the  barrack — a 
voice  had  called  in  vain.  The  face  of  Maureen  Ni  Carroll 
rose  before  him,  he  set  his  teeth  and  turned  abruptly  to  the 
north,  following  the  old  road,  the  road  that  led  home,  the 
road  O'Neil  had  taken. 


KEVIN   T.  BUGGY. 

(181G— 1843.) 

Kevin  T.  Buggy  is  chiefly  known  by  the  popular  poem  printed 
here,  'The  Saxon  Shilling,' which  appeared  in  January,  1843.  He 
was  a  son  of  ^lichael  Buggy  of  Kilkenny,  where  he  was  born  in 
181G.  He  was  called  to  the  bar  in  London  in  1841,  and  later  suc- 
ceeded Sir  C.  G.  Duffy  as  editor  of  The  Belfast  Vindicator.  He 
wi'ote  some  stories  and  poems  for  Irish  newspapers,  which  were 
never  collected  or  republished.  He  died  in  Belfast,  Aug.  18,  1843, 
and  a  monument  was  erected  over  his  grave  by  means  of  a  public 
subscription. 

He  is  described  as  a  "rough,  unkempt,  slovenly,  hearty  kind  of 
man  and  of  great  ability." 

TUE    SAXON  SHILLING.  1 

Hark  I  a  martial  sound  is  heard — 

The  march  of  soldiers,  fifinj?,  drumming; 

Eyes  are  staring,  hearts  are  stirred — 

For  bold  recruits  the  brave  are  coming, 

Kibauds  flaunting,  feathers  gay — 

The  sounds  and  sights  are  surely  thrilling. 

Dazzled  village  youths  to-day 

^^'ill  crowd  to  take  the  S^axon  Shillitig. 

Ye  whose  spirits  will  not  bow 

In  peace  to  j»arish  tyrants  longer — 

Ye,  who  wear  the  villain  brow, 

And  ye  who  i)ine  in  hopeless  hunger — 

Fools,  without  the  brave  man's  faith — 

All  slaves  and  starvelings  who  are  willing 

To  soil  themselves  to  shame  and  death — 

Accept  the  fatal  l^axon  Shilling. 

Ere  you  from  your  mountains  go 
To  feel  the  scourge  of  foreign  fever, 
Swear  to  serve  the  faithless  foe 

1  Refers  to  tlie  Enj^lish  custom  when  recruiting  for  the  army.  The  ac- 
ceptance of  a  shilling  (twenty-fivo  cents)  from  the  recruiting  sergeant 
constitutes  tlie  not  of  enlisting,  and  in  the  ohl  davs  many  a  poor  fellow 
lias  boen  ho  ]>lie<l  with  drink  that  )u^  lias  awakenc^d  from  liisslef'p  to  find 
a  sliilling  in  liis  h;ind  and  tlic  Queen's  colors  (ribhons  of  rfd,  white,  and 
blue)  pinned  to  his  hat  or  on  liis  breast  ;  sure  sifcns  that  ho  liad  "  'li.sted 
for  a  soger,"  even  though  he  had  forprotten  about  it. — [Ed. 

358 


KEVIN    T.    BUGGY.  359 

That  lures  you  from  your  land  forever! 

Swear  lioncefortli  its  tools  to  be — 

To  slaughter  trained  by  ceaseless  drilling — 

Honor,  home,  and  liberty, 

Abandoned  for  a  Saxon  Shilling. 

Go — to  find,  mid  crime  and  toil. 

The  doom  to  which  such  guilt  is  hurried; 

Go — to  leave  on  Indian  soil 

Your  bones  to  bleach,  accursed,  unburied! 

Go — to  crush  the  just  and  brave, 

Whose  wrongs  with  wrath  the  world  is  filling; 

Go — to  slay  each  brother  slave 

Or  si)urn  the  blood-stained  Saxon  Shilling! 

Irish  hearts!  why  should  you  bleed 

To  swell  the  tide  of  British  glory — 

Aiding  despots  in  their  need, 

Who  've  changed  our  gi'een  so  oft  to  gory! 

None,  save  those  who  wish  to  see 

The  noblest  killed,  the  meanest  killing, 

And  true  hearts  severed  from  the  free, 

Will  take  again  the  Saxon  Shilling! 

Irish  youths!  reserve  your  strength 

Until  an  hour  of  glorious  duty, 

AVhen  Freedom's  smile  shall  cheer  at  length 

The  land  of  bravery  and  beauty. 

Bribes  and  threats,  oh,  heed  no  more — 

Let  nought  but  Justice  make  you  willing 

To  leave  your  own  dear  Island  shore. 

For  those  who  send  the  Saxon  Shilling. 


SHAN   F.   BULLOCK 

(1865 ) 

Shan  F.  Bullock,  the  novelist  of  North  of  Ireland  life  and  char- 
acter, was  born  at  Crom,  County  Fermanagh,  May  17,  1865.  He 
was  educated  at  Farra  School,  County  Westmeath,  and  King's 
College,  London. 

Although  closely  occupied  in  the  Government  service,  he  has 
found  time  to  work,  with  a  single  purpose,  at  literature,  as  well  as 
to  indulge  in  his  favorite  recreations  of  walking,  cycling,  and  swim- 
ming. His  '  Thrasna  River '  recalls  to  one  a  long  sunny  day  spent 
amid  the  bleaching  cornfields  of  Ulster,  with  the  reek  of  the  turf  in 
the  air  and  the  mountain  forever  in  sight.  His  '  Ring  o'  Rushes,' 
'  The  Charmer,'  and  '  The  Awkward  Squads '  have  in  no  less  measure 
this  quality  of  truth  and  realization.  The  close  of  1899  saw  the 
publication  of  a  new  book  by  Mr.  Bullock,  '  The  Barrys '  ;  and  in 
1901  he  published  '  Irish  Pastorals,' which  is  full  of  manifest  truth 
and  beautj". 

THE  RIVAL  SWAINS. 

From  '  The  English  Illustrated  Magazine.' 

We  left  the  Biinii  Road,  turned  down  hill  towards  Cur- 
leck,  passed  a  ijreat,  stone-walled  farmhouse  set  nakedly 
on  the  hillside,  wliirled  throuj^h  a  little  oak  plantation  and 
across  a  single-arched  bridj^e;  tlien  suddenly  came  to  a 
stretch  of  level  sandy  road  with  broad  grass  margins  on 
either  hand  and  willow  hedges,  and,  beyond  these,  low- 
lying  tracts  of  pasture  and  meadow  land  tliat  ran  on  one 
side  along  Tlirasna  River,  and  extended  on  the  other  back 
to  tlie  shores  of  Clackan  Lough. 

A  ])eautiful  country  it  is  just  there,  half-way  from  the 
Stonegate  to  Chirleck  woods,  well-wooded  and  watered, 
green  and  smiling,  with  white  farmhouses  scattered  plenti- 
fully over  its  face,  and  dark  patches  of  crop-land  here  and 
there  })etween  the  hedges,  and  round  all,  dim  and  blue, 
the  mighty  ring  of  giant  mountains.  I>ut,  like  a  true  son 
of  the  soil  and  owner  of  a  higli-stepping  horse,  my  friend 
Jairies  Hicks  had  more  eye  for  tlie  road  nnd  its  ruts  tlian 
for  the  hills  and  their  beauties,  nor  would  he  allow  many 
words  of  mine  in  praise  of  the  natural  ])eauties  of  the  land 
to  sift  through  his  rustic  mind  unrel)uked.     No!  to  blazes 

360 


SHAN   F.    BULLOCK.  361 

with  beautv  and  color  and  the  rest!  What  cared  he  for 
such  foolery?  It  was  the  soil  he  valued,  the  hard,  practical 
soil,  sir,  not  the  frippery  that  spoilt  the  face  of  it. 

"Fine,  ye  call  it!"  he  said,  and  pointed  disdainfully 
with  his  whip  at  the  big"  rushy  lields  beyond  the  hedge.  "  I 
wish  to  glory  ye  saw  me  stick  a  spade  half  a  foot  into  the 
skin  of  it.  Water  an'  clay,  that 's  what  ye  'd  find,  an'  grass 
growin'  on  it  that  'd  cut  ye  like  razors.  Ay !  I  know  it. 
An'  sure  there  's  good  reason  for  it  bein'  so.  Ye  see  Thras- 
na  River  over  there?  "  said  he,  and  pointed  to  the  right 
with  his  wliip.  "  An'  ye  see  Clackan  Lough  over  there?  " 
and  he  wagged  his  head  to  the  left.  "An'  ye  remarked  that 
little  stream  back  there,  wi'  the  bridge  over  it?  Well,  if 
3'e  look  hard  at  them  they  '11  tell  their  own  story.  Supi)ose 
the  sky  opened  there  above  your  head  and  spouted  rain  for 
six  whole  days  at  a  time,  what  'd  happen?  Eh?  I  '11  tell 
ye.  The  mountains  there  beyond  'd  send  the  water  roarin' 
down  upon  us;  the  lakes  above  in  Cavan  'd  swell  an'  come 
slap  at  us;  the  hills  there 'd  do  their  duty;  an'  then  up 
rises  the  river,  an'  the  lake,  over  comes  the  water  wi'  a 
jump,  an'  when  you  'd  be  eatin'  your  supper  there  's  a  lake 
spread  between  the  hills,  an'  a  canal  three  feet  deep  run- 
nin'  here  over  the  road  between  the  hedges.  Yes,  aw  I  know 
it !  That 's  the  time  to  see  how  beautiful  the  country 
looks!  That's  the  time  to  make  the  farmers  kick  their 
heels  wi'  ]oj  wi'  their  hay  in  wisps,  an'  their  turf  in  mud, 
and  their  potatoes  maybe  swamped!  How  comfortable 
ye  'd  feel,  now,  if  ye  wanted  to  get  to  Curleck,  an'  ye  had 
no  friend  to  drive  ye,  an'  the  water  was  as  deep  as  your 
chin  on  the  road,  an' —  Aw  dear,  oh  dear  I  "  James  cried 
suddenly,  and  slapped  his  knee ;  then,  in  true  Irish  fashion, 
changed  his  tune  quickly  from  dolor  to  laughter.  "  Aw 
dear,  oh  dear!  to  think  of  that  story  comin'  into  me  head 
all  at  once !  Sure  it 's  wonderful  the  quare  tricks  one's 
brain-box  plays  one.  The  quarest  thing  it  was  happened 
along  this  very  road,  sir,  one  winter's  night  when  the 
floods  were  up.  But  maybe  ye  know  the  story  o'  George 
Lunny's  stilts,  an'  what  came  o'  them?  " 

I  shook  my  head.  So  James  leant  his  elbow  on  the  cush- 
ion of  the  car- well,  crossed  his  legs,  and  having  worked  his 
horse  into  a  steady  trot,  went  on  with  his  story. 

"  'T  was  a  good  many  years  ago  that  the  thing  happened. 


3(12  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

an'  't  was  in  the  same  winter  that  the  big  wind  blew  the 
roof  ott'  the  hay-shed  at  Emo.  Powerful  the  flood  was  at 
that  time  an'  four  feet  deep  it  hiy  on  this  very  road;  so 
that  if  ye  wanted  to  get  to  Curleck  an'  hadn't  a  boat,  an' 
liadu't  time  to  <;et  around  the  hike  there,  ye  had  to  take 
your  life  in  your  list,  tuck  up  your  coat-tails,  an'  wi'  the 
tops  o'  the  hedjijes  to  guide  ye,  just  wade  for  it.  Faith ! 
't  was  a  funny  sight  o'  market-days  to  see  the  ould  women 
comiu'  along  here  on  their  asses'  carts  wi'  their  skirts  over 
their  ears,  an'  the  water  s(|uirtin'  out  below  the  tail-board, 
an'  the  unfortunate  baste  of  an  ass  trudgin'  unconcernedly 
tiirough  it  all  wi'  its  head  an'  ears  showin'  above  the  water; 
an'  a  funnier  sight  't  was  at  times  to  see  George  Lunny  an' 
the  rest  comin'  through  it  on  their  stilts.  Like  ghosts 
they  'd  seem  o'  times,  when  dusk  was  comin';  if  a  wind  was 
blowin',  ye 'd  think  thoj  were  drunk,  that  wobbly  they's 
be;  an'  at  the  deep  parts,  be  the  Kings  I  but  it 's  miracles 
ye  'd  think  they  'd  be  at  an'  walkin'  on  the  water.  Anyway, 
it 's  about  George  I  must  tell  ye. 

"  Ue  used  to  work  below  in  the  gardens  at  Lord  Louth's 
— a  middle-sized,  good-natured  kind  o'  fellow,  harmless 
enough,  an'  powerful  good  to  the  widow  mother  at  home. 
An'  o'  course,  he  has  a  wee  girl  to  go  courtin';  an'  o'  course 
there  's  another  man  that 's  sweet  on  her  too;  an'  o'  course 
she  lived  that  side  o'  the  flood — ye  '11  see  the  house  shortly 
Avhen  we  get  to  the  woods — an'  they  lived  tJiis.  So  ye  '11 
see  that  what  wi'  crossin'  the  flood  o'  nights  to  see  her,  an' 
the  trifle  o'  jealousy  between  themselves,  they  had  enough 
to  keep  them  alive  through  the  winter. 

"  Well,  one  night  when  George  had  had  his  supper,  an' 
a  wash  an'  shave,  he  takes  his  stilts  across  his  shoulder,  and 
sets  out  to  see  the  wee  girl,  Bessie  Bredin  by  name.  'T  was 
a  fine,  frosty  night,  wi'  a  three-quarter  moon  shinin',  an' 
wiicn  G<'orge  gets  to  the  edge  o'  the  flood  there  behind  the 
bridge,  who  should  he  see  but  th'  other  fellow  sittin'  on  the 
copin'  stones. 

"'Awl  good  evenin',  David,'  (that  being  the  rival's 
name)  says  George,  restin'  his  stilts  against  the  bridge 
wail  an'  [)ullin'  out  his  pipe.     '  It  's  a  fine  night  now.' 

"' It  is  so,  George,'  answers  Davi<l,  not  speaking  too 
friendly-like,  still  without  any  ill-will,  for  so  far  it  was 
a  fair  race  between  the  two.    '  It  is  so.' 


SHAN    F.    BULLOCK.  363 

" '  It 's  a  cowld  seat  ye  've  got  there  this  frosty  night, 
David,'  said  (ieorge,  strikin'  a  match. 

"  '  Aw,  it  is,'  answers  David.  '  I  just  daundered  down 
to  look  at  the  wild  ducks  on  the  wing,  an'  smoke  me  pipe.' 

""Ye  hadn't  a  notion  to  cross  the  flood  now,  David?' 
asks  George  in  his  sly  way. 

"  '  Aw,  no,'  says  David.    '  Aw !  not  at  all.' 

"  '  Ay?  '  says  George,  catchin'  hold  o'  his  stilts.  '  Well, 
I  'm  goin'  that  direction  for  an  hour  or  so.  Any  thin'  I  can 
do  for  ye? ' 

" "  Ah,  no,  George,'  says  David.  '  Ah,  no,  'cept  I  'm 
sorry  I  couldn't — well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  thinkin' 
o'  goin'  down  Curleck  way  the  night.  Only  Jan  Farmer, 
bad  luck  take  him  I  has  gone  off  wi'  the  cot  after  the  ducks, 
and  I  can't  cross.' 

"  '  Aw,'  says  George,  that  sleek  and  pitiful,  '  that 's  bad 
— that's  bad.  An'  ye've  no  stilts  or  any  thin'?  Och,  och, 
man  alive!  what  were  ye  thinkin'  of?  An'  sure  't  would  be 
an  ojus  pity  to  wet  them  new  Sunday  trousers  o'  yours. 
But  tell  ye  what,  David,  I  've  a  broad  back  on  me,  an'  a 
stout  pair  o'  legs,  an'  the  stilts  there  'd  carry  a  ton  weight 
— get  on  me  back,  an'  I  '11  carry  ye  over.' 

"  Well,  at  that  David  hummed  an'  ha'd  a  while,  an'  ob- 
jected this  an'  that :  he  didn't  care  whether  he  went  or  not ; 
he  was  bigger  an'  weightier  than  George  (which  was  true, 
but  not  over  weighty  for  a  big  lump  o'  a  man  like  George), 
an'  might  strain  his  back ;  they  might  trip  over  a  rut  or  a 
stone.  An'  George  just  listened  quietly  to  it  all  an'  threw 
in  an  odd  remark  in  a  careless  kind  o'  way,  knowin'  well 
enough  that  David  was  dyin'  to  go,  an'  that  't  was  only 
fear  of  his  skin  that  hindered  him.  At  last  up  George  gets 
on  his  stilts,  an'  says  he — 

"  '  Well,  David,  me  son,  good-bye;  I  'm  sorry  I  can't  stay 
longer  wi  'ye,  but  I  'm  expectin'  to  see  some  one  about 
eight  o'clock.  Good-night,  David,  an'  take  care  o'  your- 
self.' An'  at  the  word  up  gets  David  from  the  wall  an' 
takes  a  grip  o'  George's  trousers. 

"  '  Aisy,'  says  he ;  '  aisy,  I  '11  go.' 

"  So  George  gets  alongside  the  bridge-wall,  an'  David 
mounts  it  an'  scrambles  on  to  George's  back;  an'  off  the 
caravan  sets  through  the  floo<l. 

"  Well,  sir,  there  begins  the  game ;  for  George  was  a 


364  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

masterpiece  on  the  stilts,  an'  held  the  whip  hand,  and 
David,  as  the  water  got  closer  and  closer  to  his  feet,  only 
shivered  more  an'  more,  an'  gripped  George  the  tighter. 
First  George  'd  wobble  to  this  side,  an'  David  'd  shout 
Miirthcr!  Then  George  M  wobble  that  side,  and  David 'd 
roar  Mcihi  mnrthcr!  Then  George 'd  splash  a  drop  o' 
frosty  water  round  David's  ankles  an'  set  him  shiverin'; 
then  he  'd  turn  his  face  round  an'  say,  '  Av>',  David,  David, 
me  strength  's  goin','  an'  lek  a  shaved  monkey  David  \\ 
sliiver  on  his  back  an'  chatter  wi'  his  teeth.  At  last,  about 
half-way  through,  (Jeorge,  whether  from  pure  divilment 
or  spite,  I  know  not — for  afterwards  he  'd  never  say — gives 
a  quick  lurch  on  the  stilts,  jerks  his  shoulders  an'  off  David 
goes  into  the  water — slap  in  he  goes,  wi'  a  roar  like  a  bull, 
tlounders  awhile,  then  rises  splutterin',  rubs  his  eyes,  an' 
sets  olf  like  a  grampus  helter-skelter  after  George.  Whiroo ! 
there's  wliei-e  tlse  sciMie  was,  an'  the  Whillaloo,  an'  the 
splashin'  an'  swearin';  but  at  last  George  gets  to  dry  land, 
drops  the  stilts  an'  as  hard  as  he  could  pelt  makes  for 
the  girl's  house.  An'  after  him  like  a  retriever  goes  David, 
as  wet  as  a  fish  an'  as  mad  as  twenty  hatters.  ^Aav  !  may 
tlie  divil  send  that  I  get  me  hands  on  ye,'  he  'd  shout,  '  till 
T  pull  the  wizen  out  o'  ye! '  An'  away  in  front  Geoi-ge  'd 
laugh  an'  shout  back,  *^Aw,  David,  David,  spare  me,  spare 
me!  'T  was  all  an  accident.'  So  like  that  they  went  on 
along  this  very  road  up  the  Kound  Hill  there,  down 
through  the  woods  below,  an'  up  the  lane  to  the  girl's 
house. 

"  I  happened  that  night  to  be  makin'  a  Jxalcjj  in  Bredin's 
kitchen — in  troth,  I  may  say  at  once  that  if  Bessie,  the 
daughter,  had  looked  kindly  on  meself  instead  o'  George  or 
David,  I  'd  have  jumped  in  me  boots — an'  was  sittin'  in  the 
corner  hoMin'  discourse  wi'  Bredin  himself,  when  the  door 
clatters  open  an'  in  comes  George  ])antin'  an'  blowin'. 

"  'Aw,  awl '  says  he,  dro])pin'  into  a  chair  an'  tryin'  to 
laugh,  '  I  '11  be  kilt— I '11  be  kilt!  Big  Davy's  after  me 
roarin'  vengeance.  I — I — '  then,  as  well  as  he  could,  told 
us  what  had  happened.  '  Here  he  comes,'  says  George, 
risin'  to  his  feet;  an'  wi'  that  tlie  door  flings  open  an'  in 
conies  Big  I)avi<] — the  wofulcst  ol)ject  ye  iver  clapped 
eyes  on,  wi'  his  hair  in  his  eyes,  an'  his  clothes  dreepin',  an' 
his  face  blue  as  a  blue  bag.    lie  dunders  into  the  kitchen, 


SHAN   F.    BULLOCK.  365 

looks  at  George,  then  wi'  a  shout  makes  for  him.  '  Aw,  ye 
whelp  ye  I '  shouts  he,  '  I  've  ^ot  }\: ; '  but  at  that  Bredin 
runs,  an'  the  wife  runs,  an'  I  run,  an'  between  us  all  keep 
the  two  asunder.  An'  all  the  time  Davy  keeps  roarin'  an' 
strugglin',  and  George  standin'  by  the  fire  keeps  sayin': 
'  Aw.  Davy,  Davy,  't  was  only  an  accident! ' 

"  Well,  sir,  after  a  while  we  got  David  c.alme:!  dov/n  a 
bit,  an'  made  him  promise  to  be  quiet;  then  away  upstairs 
he  goes  an'  soon  comes  dov.ii  decked  out  in  Bredin's  Sun- 
day clothes,  and  sits  him  down  hj  the  fire,  wi'  Bredin  and 
myself  between  him  an'  George.  Faith!  'twas  a  curious 
sight  to  see  the  pair  o'  them :  David  glowerin'  across  the 
hearthstone  wi'  his  hands  spread  out  to  the  blaze,  an' 
George  wi'  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  kettle,  hardly  knowin' 
whetiier  to  laugh  or  grin.  Aw!  but  soon  the  laugh  was 
th'  other  side  o'  his  face ;  for  what  d'  ye  think  but  Bessie, 
though  every  one  knew  she  was  fondest  o'  George  an'  was 
nearly  promised  to  him,  gave  him  the  back  o'  her  hand 
that  night,  an'  was  like  honey  itself  to  David!  Troth, 
't  was  wonderful !  But,  sure,  women  are  the  curious  mor- 
tals, any  way.  Ay !  any  one  that  has  a  wife  knows  it  well. 
All  the  fuss  she  made  o'  him !  'T  was  '  David,  are  ye  this?  ' 
an'  *  David,  are  ye  that?  '  an' '  David,  wid  ye  like  a  hot  cup 
o'  tea?  '  till  ye  'd  think  a'most  't  was  a  child  o'  six  she  was 
sootherin'.  Down  she  brings  the  big  arm-chair  from  the 
parlor  an'  sits  him  in  it;  nothin'  '11  do  her  but  he  must  ha' 
a  glass  o'  hot  punch  at  his  elbow;  here  she  was  always 
turnin'  an'  twistin'  his  wet  clothes  before  the  fire,  an'  not 
a  glance  would  she  give  poor  George  at  all,  sittin'  mum  wi' 
his  toes  in  the  aches.  Och  !  not  one.  An'  David,  seein'  how 
things  were,  could  hardly  keep  from  shoutin',  he  was  that 
proud;  an'  every  now  an'  again  he'd  look  sl.yly  at  George, 
as  much  as  to  say:  '  Ye  've  done  for  yourself,  me  son,  this 
time,  an'  dang  your  eyes !  but  it  serves  ye  right.'  An' 
George  'd  squirm  on  his  stool  an'  bite  at  the  shank  o'  his 
pipe;  at  last,  up  he  rises,  throws  a  dark  look  at  Bessie, 
gives  us  a  surly  good-night,  an'  bangs  the  door  behind 
him.  'Aw,  good-night,  George!'  shouts  David  after  him, 
^  an'  don't  forget  your  stilts,  me  son,  next  time  ye  come 
courtin' — at  which  Bredin  laughs,  an'  the  wife,  an'  Bessie 
herself;  but  for  me,  I  shut  me  lips,  for  never  did  I  like  that 
David,  an'  't  was  a  wonder  to  me  what  was  possessin'  Bes- 
sie that  night. 


366  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

"  But  the  next  djiy  '(  was  imu-li  the  same,  an'  the  next; 
an'  by  the  folh>win'  Sunday  't  was  round  the  country  that 
I)avid  was  the  boy  for  Bessie  Bredin,  as  sure  as  j^un  was 
iron.  An'  faith,  it  seemed  so;  for  if  ye  met  David  on  the 
road  lie  had  his  head  as  liii^h  as  Napoleon,  an'  if  3^e  met 
Georue  he  looked  like  a  plucked  ii;oose;  an'  if  ye  saw  one 
pass  the  other,  't  was  a  black  sneer  David  had  on  his  face, 
an'  George  VI  look  same  as  if  he  was  walkin'  to  the  gallows. 
Bitter  enemies  they  were  now — bitter  enemies  for  all  that 
(Jeorge  said  little  an'  David  gave  out  he  didn't  care  a  tin- 
ker's curse,  an'  niver  did,  for  all  the  (jeorges  in  Ireland — 
not  if  he  was  George  the  Fifth  himself. 

"  Well,  things  went  on  like  that  for  a  wdiile;  an'  at  last, 
one  fair  day  at  Bunn,  our  two  boys  were  brought  together 
by  some  friends,  myself  among  them,  an'  over  a  quiet  glass 
in  the  Diamond  Hotel  we  strove  to  make  them  forget  an' 
forgive.  Let  the  girl  choose  for  herself,  said  we,  an'  let 
the  best  man  win.  But  sorrow  a  bit  would  they  shake 
hands — no,  sir.  David  stood  there  in  his  high  an'  mighti- 
ness, an'  George  hung  back  glowerin';  an'  at  last,  over  a 
hot  woi-d  that  f(dl,  George  struck  David.  Whciv-iv!  'twas 
a  fair  slialoo  in  two  seconds;  ye 'd  think  the  house  was 
comin'  down;  but  we  all  got  between  them,  an'  at  last  got 
them  quiet  on  the  understandin'  that  they  were  to  fight 
it  out  fair  an'  square  on  Cluny  Island  the  followin'  Satur- 
day evenin'.  'All  right!'  shouts  David,  an'  whacks  the 
table,  '  all  riglit,  me  sons — an'  bring  your  cofifin,'  he  says  to 
George  as  our  party  left  the  room !  '  bring  your  coffin ! ' 

"  ^^'ell,  sir,  Saturday  evenin'  came,  an'  over  we  all  went 
to  Cluny  Island,  George  an'  his  party  in  one  cot,  an'  Da- 
vid and  bis  in  another.  All  roarin'  David  was  wi'  joy,  an' 
I  'm  thinkin'  that  maybe  there  was  a  drop  o'  drink  some- 
wliere  near  liim;  but  (Jeorge  was  quiet  enough,  an'  never 
said  a  word  all  th(?  way  over,  an'  up  through  the  woods  till 
we  came  to  the  ould  cockpit  on  top  o'  the  hill.  An'  there 
me  two  heroes  strip  an'  face  each  other. 

"  'T  was  a  good  fight,  sir,  as  good  as  ever  happened  in 
these  parts;  an'  a  pluckier  battle  than  George  fought  I 
never  seen.  Xo !  nor  never  will.  He  was  a  light  man  in 
those  days,  an'  not  over  tall,  an'  David  was  like  the  side 
o'  a  house,  sturdy  an'  strong  as  an  ox;  but  George  faced  his 
man  as  if  he  was  only  five  fut  nothin'.     An',  by  jing!  if 


SHAX    r.    fUJLLOCK.  3r,7 

we  didn't  think  at  first  be  was  goin'  to  win,  that  nimble 
he  was  an'  quick,  that  watchful  an'  cute,  an'  hard  in  the 
blow,  too,  sometimes.  Yes,  he  hammered  David  for  Ions 
enouj!,h.  But  never  tell  me,  sir,  that  your  race-horse  '11 
beat  your  fourteen-stone  hunter  over  a  ten-mi h's'  course. 
Aw !  not  at  all.  Ye  may  practice  your  nimbleness  on  a 
stone  wall  as  lonj>-  as  ye  like,  but  isn't  it  the  wall  has  the 
lauj;h  in  the  end?  Aw !  of  course.  An'  so  it  was  wi' 
George.  After  a  while  he  "ets  a  bit  tired;  then  loose  in 
his  guard;  then  liard  in  his  breath — tJicn^  sir,  David  lets 
fly  right  an'  left  like  a  flail  on  a  barn  floor,  an'  in  ten 
minutes,  sir,  he  had  George  standin'  before  him  as  limp 
as  a  rag  an'  as  broken  a  man  as  ye  ever  seen.  '  Are  ye 
done? '  shouts  David  at  that.  '  Are  ye  ready  for  your  cof- 
fin? '  '  No ! '  answers  George,  an'  tries  to  rally; '  not  till  ye 
kill  me!'  'Then  here  goes,  and  be  danged  to  ye!'  roars 
David;  wi'  that  he  rushes  in  like  a  tornado,  hits  out,  an' 
down  goes  George  like  an  empty  sack. 

"  '  Now,'  says  David  again,  foldin'  his  arms  an'  throwin' 
back  his  shoulders,  '  now,  coffin  or  no  coffin,  you  're  done, 
me  divil!  Eh?'  says  he,  turnin'  to  his  party  wi'  a  laugh. 
'Eh,  boys?  there's  hope  for  Ireland  yet!'  Back  comes 
the  skirl ;  an'  just  as  we  were  goin'  to  give  them  defiance  I 
hears  the  swish  o'  skirts,  an'  there,  stoopin'  over  George,  is 
Bessie  Bredin. 

As  pale  as  death  she  was ;  an'  at  sight  of  her  David,  like 
the  rest  of  us,  stands  back.  Down  she  goes  on  her  knees, 
lifts  George's  head,  tells  one  o'  us  to  get  water;  then 
bathes  his  face  and  neck  wi'  it,  an'  like  that  she  stays  till 
he  comes  to  an'  is  able  to  stand  up.  Then  she  helps  him 
into  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  puts  his  cap  on,  an'  turns  to 
where  David  was  standin'  back  glowerin'  from  under  his 
eyebrows. 

"  '  Ah,'  says  she,  '  ye  big  cowardly  bully !  Ye  daren't 
fight  your  match.  No !  Ye  'd  rather  lay  your  dirty  hands 
where  ye  know  they  'd  hurt.  It 's  a  wonder  't  wasn't  myself 
ye  challenged.  D'ye  know  what  he  did,  boys?'  says  she, 
turnin'  to  us  all.  '  lie  creeps  up  the  lane  to  see  me  last 
night,  an'  comes  rubbin'  his  big  hands  into  the  kitchen,  an' 
he  whispers  in  my  ear :  "  If  ye  want  to  see  me  fit  a  corpse  to 
a  coffin,"  he  savs,  "  be  in  Clunv  Island  the  morrow  evenin' 
about  dusk."     Yes,  that 's  what  ye  said,  an'  ye  made  sure 


SOS  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

I  \l  he  liero  too  late — ye  bisj,  black,  cowardly  liar,  ye!  Go 
home,'  she  says,  poiutiu'  at  him  wi'  her  finger,  an'  speakin' 
as  one  would  to  a  tinker.  '  Go  home  an'  marry  a  beggar  wo- 
man I '  says  she ; '  maybe  she  '11  teach  ye  manners  an'  soften 
the  heart  in  ye.' 

"  Then  she  turned  to  George. 

"  ^  Come  away,  George,'  says  she,  an'  takes  his  arm ; 
'  Come  away,  me  sou;  an'  God  forgive  me  for  bringin'  y^ 
to  this ! '  " 


/lUM^ 


u:„'.. 


EDMUND  BURKE 

From  an  engraving  by  S.  Freedman,  of  Dublin 


EDMUND  BURKE. 

(1730—1797.) 

Edmund  Burke — of  whom  Dr.  Johnson  said  his  ' '  mind  was 
a  perennial  stream,"  who  was  pronounced  by  Sir  Archibald  Alison 
to  be  "  the  greatest  political  philosopher  and  most  far-seeing  states- 
man of  modern  times,"  and  who  was  illustrious  alike  as  orator 
and  author — was  born  in  Ari'an  Quay,  Dublin,  Jan.  1,  1730.  His 
father  was  a  Protestant,  in  which  religion  Edmund  was  brought  up, 
and  his  mother  Catholic.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  the  difference  in 
religion  between  tlie  parents,  which  has  so  often  been  the  cause  of 
evil,  had  in  his  case  a  beneficial  effect,  allaying  bigotry  and  opening 
his  mind  to  broader  views  when  considering  opi^osing  opinions. 

Burke  was  of  a  sickly  constitution,  and,  being  unable  to  take  ex- 
ercise like  other  children,  he  read  a  great  deal,  and  so  got  far  in 
advance  of  those  of  his  own  age.  At  fourteen,  when  he  entered 
Trinity  College,  he  was  unusually  well  read,  especially  in  classic 
literature,  for  a  boy  of  that  age.  In  his  college  career  Burke  did 
not  distinguish  hiniself  beyond  ordinary  students.  He  was  dis- 
cursive in  his  reading,  and  given  to  sudden  and  impulsive  changes 
in  his  studies;  at  one  time  he  would  be  devoted  to  history,  at  another 
to  mathematics,  now  to  metaphysics,  and  again  to  poetry.  This 
desultory  habit,  though  it  may  have  interfered  with  the  success  of 
his  academic  career,  doubtless  made  him  all  the  better  suited  for 
the  wide  stage  on  which  he  was  later  to  play  so  great  a  part. 

In  1747  he  and  some  others  formed  a  club  which  was  the  germ  of 
the  celebrated  Historical  Society,  and  here  he  put  forth  hia  opinions 
on  historic  characters,  paintings,  and  the  wide  range  of  subjects  of 
which  he  was  master,  without  fear  of  the  judgment  or  criticism 
of  his  audience,  and  thus  gained  that  very  boldness  which  after- 
ward rendered  him  so  unmanageable  in  debate.  In  1748  he  took 
his  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  and  soon  after  left  the  university. 
In  1750  he  proceeded  to  London,  his  name  having  already  been 
entered  as  a  student  at  the  Middle  Temple.  But,  instead  of  study- 
ing for  the  law,  he  paid  visits  to  the  House  of  Commons,  as  if  drawn 
there  by  some  powerful  instinct,  made  speeches  at  the  Robin  Hood 
Society,  and  contributed  to  the  periodicals  so  as  to  eke  out  the  small 
allowance  granted  him  by  his  father. 

At  this  last  occupation  he  worked  so  hard  that  his  health,  never 
very  good,  began  to  suffer.  His  physician.  Dr.  Nugent,  advised 
rest  and  quiet,  and  invited  him  to  his  own  house.  There  he  received 
the  kindest  treatment ;  and  an  attacliment  sprang  up  between  him 
and  the  physician's  daughter,  resulting  in  a  marriage  which  proved 
exceptionally  happy.  Mrs.  Burke's  character,  we  ai'e  told,  was 
"soft,  gentle,  reasonable,  and  obliging."  She  was  also  noted  for 
managing  her  husband's  affairs  with  prudence  and  discretion.  No 
wonder  Burke  declared  that,  in  all  the  most  anxious  moments  of 
24  369 


;;7()  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

liis  puMiclifo,  every  care  vanished  the  moment  he  entered  his  own 
hi>ini\ 

The  iirst  of  his  essays,  so  far  as  is  known,  that  attained  to  any 
fxroat  (listiin'tion  was  his  '  Vindication  of  Natural  Society,'  which 
appoai-i'd  anonymously  in  tlie  spring  of  1756.  His  intention  in  it 
wjxs  to  prove  that  the  same  arguments  which  were  employed  by 
I^di'd  Bolingbroke  for  the  destruction  of  religion  might  be  employed 
with  04Ual  success  for  the  subversion  of  government. 

Before  the  end  of  the  same  year  Burke  published  his  celebrated 
work,  •  A  Physiological  Inquiry  into  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the 
Sublime  and  the  Beautiful,'  Avliicii  advanced  him  to  a  first  place 
among  writers  on  taste  and  criticism.  Johnson  praised  it  highly, 
and  Blair.  Iliuno,  Sir  Joshua  Beynolds.  and  other  prominent  men 
sought  the  friends! lip  of  the  author.  His  father,  who  had  been  in- 
dignant at  his  son's  desertion  of  the  law,  was  so  pleased  with  the 
work  that  ho  sent  liim  a  present  of  £100  ($500)  as  a  mark  of  his  ad- 
miration and  ajiproval.  In  1758,  still  devotedly  attached  to  the 
study  of  history,  he  proposed  to  Dodsley  the  publication  of  The 
AiDinal  Register,  and  an  arrangement  was  made  by  which  Burke 
wrote  the  historical  part  of  the  work  for  many  years. 

His  political  career  properly  commenced  in  1701.  He  went  to 
Ireland  as  private  secretarj-  to  William  Gerard  Hamilton  (of  ' '  sin- 
gle-speech "  memory),  who  was  at  the  time  Chief  Secretary  to  the 
Lord  Lieutenant.  For  his  services  he  was  awarded  a  pension 
of  £300  ($1,500),  but  after  a  time  be  threw  it  up  as  inconsistent 
with  his  personal  independence.  In  1705  he  returned  to  London, 
and  was  introduced  to  the  Marquis  of  Eockinghain,  Avho,  on  be- 
coming Prime  Minister,  appointed  him  private  secretary.  In  1706 
he  l)ecame  member  for  the  borough  of  Wendover,  and  took  his  seat 
in  that  House  which  he  was  afterward  so  greatly  to  influence  and 
adorn.  His  first  speech  was  on  American  affairs,  and  was  praised 
by  Pitt.  In  it  he  advised  the  Rockingham  administration  to  repeal 
the  Stamp  Act,  which  so  irritated  this  country,  but  at  the  same 
time  to  pass  an  act  declaratory  of  the  riglit  of  Great  Britain  to  tax 
her  colonies.  The  compromise  which  he  advised  was  carried  out  ; 
but  the  Ministry  soon  after  resigned  to  give  place  to  Mr.  Pitt. 

Upon  this  Burke  wrote  his  '  Short  Account  of  a  Late  Short  Ad- 
ministration ! '  In  this  year  (1768)  Mr.  Burke  thus  writes  to  a 
friend  :  "  I  have  purchased  a  house  (Boaconsfield)  with  an  estate  of 
about  six  hundred  acres  of  land  in  Buckinghamshire,  twenty-four 
miles  from  London,  where  I  now  am.  It  is  a  place  exceedingly 
pleasant,  and  I  propose  (God  willing)  to  become  a  farmer  in  good 
earnest.  You  who  are  classical  will  not  be  displeased  to  hear  that 
it  was  formerly  the  seat  of  Waller  the  poet,  Avhose  hovise,  or  i)art 
of  it,  makes  at  present  the  farmhouse  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
me."  During  the  Wilkes  excitement  ho  opi)osed  the  violent  meas- 
ures adopted  against  that  firebrand,  and  in  1770  he  published  his 
'Tlioughtson  the  Causes  of  the  Present  Discontents,' which  con- 
tains a  Cf»pious  statement  of  his  idoas  on  the  English  Constitution. 
He  also  took  a  prominent  part  in  tlie  <lebates  on  the  liberty  of  the 
press,  strongly  supporting  those  wlio  wished  to  curtail  the  power 


EDMUND    BURKE.  371 

of  the  Crown.  In  1774  he  was  chosen  member  for  Bristol,  and  on 
April  19  he  made  a  powerful  speecli  on  the  repeal  of  the  tea  duly 
in  America.  This  speecli  "  was  one  of  the  great(!st  to  which  any 
assembly  had  ever  listened,  replete  with  philosophy  and  adorned 
with  the  most  porgeous  diction,"  and  it  raised  Burke  at  once  into 
the  position  of  first  orator  in  Parliament. 

The  greatest  acliievement  in  this  period  of  the  history  of  Burke 
was  the  long  struggle  against  the  principle  of  government  by  the 
King  and  his  Ministers  chosen  and  dismissed  by  himself,  which 
assumed  a  particularly  odious  character  in  connection  with  Amei'- 
ican  affairs  and  was  no  less  offensive  to  liberty-loving  Englishmen 
at  home.  In  March,  1775,  he  introduced  his  famous  '  Thirteen  Prop- 
ositions for  Quieting  the  Troubles  in  America,'  and  delivered  an- 
other great  speech,  in  which  he  pointed  out  how,  on  the  grounds  of 
expediency  alone,  concession  to  the  colonists'  demands  was  the 
wiser  course.  In  1777  he  again  appeared  in  advocacy  of  the  cause 
of  the  colonies  ;  but  the  hour  for  conciliation  was  past,  and  his 
speeches  on  the  subject  were  only  able  reasoning  and  eloquence 
wasted.  In  1783  Lord  Rockingham  again  came  into  power,  and 
Burke  was  appointed  to  the  well-paid  post  of  Paymaster-General, 
together  with  a  seat  at  the  Council  board.  On  the  death  of  Rock- 
ingham he  resigned  his  post  and  joined  the  coalition  with  Fox  and 
North.  This  coalition  defeated  Shelburne,  who  had  taken  Rocking- 
ham's place,  and  on  the  2d  of  April  entered  office,  Burke  becoming 
once  more  Paymaster-Genei'al.  But  the  Ministry  was  short-lived, 
being  defeated  on  the  India  bill  in  December  of  the  same  year,  and 
Mr.  Pitt  succeeded  to  the  helm  of  state. 

No  sooner  were  the  American  questions  out  of  the  way  than 
Burke  threw  himself  with  arduous  energy  into  a  subject  of  scarcely 
less  importance  to  the  empire  of  Great  Britain.  He  had  for  a  long 
time  viewed  the  career  of  Warren  Hastings  in  India  with  indig- 
nation, and  in  1784  he  began  his  famous  attack  upon  that  individual. 
No  sooner  had  Hastings  returned  to  England  than  Burke  took  steps 
toward  his  impeachment.  He  had  studied  Indian  affairs  with  as- 
siduous care,  and  was  thus  enabled  to  make  the  great  speeches 
with  which  he  began  his  attack  not  only  eloquent  but  full  of  infor- 
mation such  as  no  other  member  of  the  House  could  impart.  How- 
ever, for  a  time  he  made  little  way  against  the  large  majority 
opposed  to  him,  and  it  was  the  13th  of  February,  1788,  before  the 
great  trial  commenced.  As  every  one  knows,  it  lasted  for  six  years, 
and  was  the  cause  of  some  of  the  most  eloquent  speeches  by  Burke 
and  others  ever  uttered  in  Westminster  Hall.  The  trial  brought 
Burke  inci'ease  of  fame  as  an  orator,  but  ratlier  lessened  him  in  the 
popular  opinion,  and  the  final  result  was  the  acquittal  of  the 
"  haughty  criminal."  But  his  work  was  not  in  vain.  Public  at- 
tention was  aroused,  and  the  power  of  the  East  India  Company  was 
considerably  modified  thereafter. 

The  French  Revolution  was  the  next  subject  to  occupy  his  mind ; 
and  he  vigorously  opposed  the  extreme  views  of  the  men  who  in 
France  were  apparently  dragging  the  whole  fabric  of  society  to 
ruin,  and  he  published  his  famous  pamphlet,  '  Reflections  on  the 


372  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

Fi'ench  Revolution.'  He  fiercely  attacked  its  leaders  and  its  princi- 
ples, and  practically  took  the  position  of  defending  all  estab- 
lishments, however  tyrannical,  and  censuring  every  popular 
struggle  for  liberty,  whatever  the  oppi'ession.  Within  a  year 
19.000  copies  were  sold  in  England,  and  about  as  many  more  in 
Europe  in  French.  Its  richness  of  diction  and  felicity  of  illustra- 
tion caused  it  to  be  read  by  thousands  who  would  have  cared  noth- 
ing for  a  dry  philosophical  treatise.  But  while  it  had  many  ad- 
mirers it  had  several  critics,  and  brought  forth  in  rei)ly  Sir  James 
Mackintosh's  '  Vindicia^  Galliese '  and  Thomas  Paine's  famous 
*  Rights  of  Man.'  Burke  followed  it  up  by  a  '  Letter  to  a  Member 
of  the  National  Assembly,'  in  1791,  '  An  Appeal  from  the  New 
Whigs  to  the  Old.'  and  "  thoughts  on  a  Regicide  Peace.'  The  publi- 
cation of  his  views  on  the  proceedings  of  the  French  revolutionists 
brought  about  a  complete  estrangement  between  Burke  and  his 
former  political  friends,  Fox  and  Sheridan,  and  led  to  the  celebrated 
scene  between  him  and  Fox  in  the  House  of  Commons,  which  re- 
sulted in  a  breach  that  was  never  repaired. 

In  1792  lie  pul)lislied  a  '  Letter  to  Sir  Hercules  Langrishe  on  the 
Pi-opriety  of  Admitting  Roman  Catholics  to  the  Elective  Franchise,' 
and  in  1794  withdrew  from  Parliament,  being  succeeded  in  the 
representation  of  Malton  by  his  only  son,  a  youth  of  great  promise, 
who  died  soon  after  ;  the  shock  was  so  great  that  Burke  never 
fully  recovered  from  it.  At  the  express  wish  of  the  King,  who 
with  his  court  had  assumed  a  very  friendly  attitude  toward  Burke, 
because  of  his  views  on  the  French  revolution,  a  pension  of  £3,700 
(^18.500)  per  annum  was  settled  upon  him  in  1795.  For  the  accep- 
tance of  this  lie  was  fiercely  attacked  in  the  House  of  Lords.  His 
'  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord,'  full  of  biting  sarcasm,  and  at  the  same 
time  lofty  resentment,  was  an  answer  to  this  attack. 

The  remaining  two  years  of  his  life  -were  spent  in  retirement,  but 
educational  and  philanthropic  measures  were  noted  and  commented 
upon,  and  his  latest  publication  w^as  on  the  affairs  of  his  native 
land,  at  that  time  fast  approaching  a  crisis.  Early  in  1797  his 
health  began  to  decline  and  he  died  July  8  of  the  same  year. 
His  remains  were  buried  at  Beaconsfield  by  his  own  desire,  as  he 
said,  "near  to  the  bodies  of  my  dearest  brother  and  my  dearest 
son,  in  all  humility  praying  that,  as  we  lived  in  perfect  unity 
together,  we  may  together  have  a  part  in  the  resurrection  of  the 
just." 

Macaulay  pronounces  Burke,  "  in  aptitude  of  comprehension,  and 
richness  of  imagination,  superior  to  every  orator,  ancient  or 
modem."  "With  the  exception  of  his  writings  upon  the  French 
revolution,"  says  Lord  Brougham.  "  an  exception  itself  to  be  quali- 
fied and  restricted,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  statesman  of 
any  age  whose  opinions  were  more  habitually  marked  by  modera- 
tion ;  by  a  constant  regard  to  the  result  of  actual  experience,  as 
well  as  the  dictates  of  an  enlarged  reason  ;  by  a  fixed  determina- 
tion always  to  be  practical,  at  the  time  he  was  giving  scope  to  the 
most  extensive  general  views  ;  by  a  cautious  and  prudent  absti- 
nence from  all  extremes,  and  especially  from  those  toward  which 


EDMUND    BURKE.  373 

the  general  complexion  of  his  political  principles  tended,  ho  felt  the 
more  necessity  for  being  on  his  guard  against  the  seduction." 

The  great  statesman  Fox  says  :  "  If  I  were  to  put  all  the  political 
information  that  I  have  ever  gained  from  books,  and  all  that  I  have 
learned  from  science,  or  that  the  knowledge  of  the  world  and  its 
affairs  have  taught  me,  into  one  scale,  and  the  improvement  I  have 
derived  from  the  conversation  and  teachings  of  Edmund  Burke  into 
the  other,  the  latter  would  preponderate." 

Within  the  massive  railings  in  front  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
stand  on  either  side  the  magnificent  statues  of  Edmund  Burke  and 
Oliver  Goldsmith,  both  executed  by  the  eminent  sculptor,  J.  H. 
Foley,  R.A. 

ON    AMERICAN    TAXATION. 

From  the  Speech  delivered  in  the  House  of  Commons  in  1774. 

Sir — It  is  not  a  pleasant  consideration;  but  nothing 
in  the  world  can  read  so  awful  and  so  instructive  a  lesson 
as  the  conduct  of  the  Ministry  in  this  business,  upon  the 
miscliief  of  not  having  large  and  liberal  ideas  in  the  man- 
agement of  great  affairs.  Never  have  the  servants  of  the 
State  looked  at  the  whole  of  your  complicated  interests  in 
one  connected  view.  They  have  taken  things  by  bits  and 
scraps,  some  at  one  time  and  one  pretense  and  some  at  an- 
other, just  as  they  pressed,  without  any  sort  of  regard  to 
their  relations  or  dependencies.  They  never  had  any  kind 
of  system,  right  or  wrong;  but  only  invented  occasionally 
some  miserable  tale  for  the  day,  in  order  meanly  to  sneak 
out  of  diflflculties  into  which  they  had  proudly  strutted. 
And  they  were  put  to  all  these  shifts  and  devices,  full  of 
meanness  and  full  of  mischief,  in  order  to  pilfer  piecemeal 
a  repeal  of  an  act  which  they  had  not  the  generous  cour- 
age, wlien  they  found  and  felt  their  error,  honorably  and 
fairly  to  disclaim.  By  such  management,  by  the  irresis- 
tible operation  of  feeble  counsels,  so  paltry  a  sum  as  Three- 
pence in  the  eye  of  a  financier,  so  insignificant  an  article 
as  Tea  in  the  eyes  of  the  philosopher,  have  shaken  the  pil- 
lars of  a  commercial  empire  that  circled  the  whole  globe. 

Do  you  forget  that  in  the  very  last  year  you  stood  on  the 
precipice  of  general  bankruptcy?  Your  danger  was  in- 
deed great.  You  were  distressed  in  the  affairs  of  the  East 
India  Company;  and  you  well  know  what  sort  of  things 
are  involved  in  the  comprehensive  energy  of  that  signifi- 


o 


74  IRISH    LITERATURE. 


cant  appdlation.  I  am  not  called  upon  to  enlarj]je  to  you 
on  that  danii'ci";  wliich  you  tlioui^lit  i)roper  yourselves  to 
airuravate  and  to  display  to  the  world  with  all  the  parade 
of  indiscreet  declamation.  The  monopoly  of  the  most  lucra- 
tive trades  and  the  possession  of  imperial  revenues  had 
broui^ht  you  to  the  verj^e  of  beijjTary  and  ruin.  Such  was 
your  rei)resentation — such,  in  some  measure,  was  your 
case.  The  vent  of  ten  millions  of  i)ounds  of  this  commod- 
ity, now  locked  up  by  the  operation  of  an  injudicious  tax 
and  rotting  in  the  warehouses  of  the  company,  would  have 
prevented  all  this  distress,  and  all  that  series  of  desperate 
measures  which  you  thought  yours(dves  obliged  to  take  in 
conse<]uence  of  it.  America  would  have  furnished  that 
vent  which  no  other  part  of  the  world  can  furnish  but 
America,  whcn^  lea  is  next  to  a  necessary  of  life  and  where 
the  demand  grows  upon  the  supply.  I  hope  our  dear- 
bought  East  India  Committees  have  done  us  at  least  so 
much  good  as  to  let  us  know  that  without  a  more  extensive 
sale  of  that  article,  our  East  India  revenues  and  acquisi- 
tions can  have  no  certain  connection  with  this  country. 
It  is  through  the  American  trade  of  tea  that  your  East 
India  conquests  are  to  be  prevented  from  crushing  you 
with  their  burden.  They  are  ponderous  indeed,  and  the.y 
must  have  that  great  country  to  lean  ujion,  or  tliey  tumble 
upon  your  head.  It  is  the  same  folly  that  lias  lost  you  at 
once  the  benefit  of  the  West  and  of  the  East.  This  folly 
has  thrown  open  folding-doors  to  contraband,  and  will  be 
the  means  of  giving  the  profits  of  the  trade  of  your 
colonies  to  every  nation  but  yourselves.  Never  did  a 
people  suffer  so  mucli  for  the  em])ty  words  of  a  preamble. 
It  must  l>e  given  up.  For  on  whnt  principles  does  it  stand? 
This  famous  revenue  stands,  at  this  hour,  on  all  the  debate, 
as  a  description  of  revenue  not  as  yet  known  in  all  the  com- 
prehensive (but  too  com])reliensive!)  vocabulary  of  finance 
— a  j)n'amhiilarjj  tax.  It  is  indeed  a  tax  of  sophistry,  a 
tax  of  pedantry,  a  tax  of  dis[>u<ati<)n,  a  tax  of  war  and  re- 
bellion, a  tax  for  anything  but  benefit  to  the  imposers  or 
satisfaftion  to  tlie  subject.  .  .  . 

Could  anything  be  a  sul)ject  of  more  just  alarm  to 
America  than  to  see  you  go  out  of  the  plain  high-road  of 
finance,  and  give  up  your  most  certain  revenues  and  your 
clearest  interests,  merely  for  the  sake  of  insulting  your 


EDMUND    BURKE.  375 

colonies?  No  man  ever  doiibtod  tliat  tlio  commodity  of 
tea  could  bcni'  an  im])osition  of  tlirccpoiicc.  Uiit  no  com- 
modity will  bear  tlireepence,  or  will  bear  a  penny,  wlien 
the  general  feelings  of  men  are  irritated;  and  two  millions 
of  people  are  resolved  not  to  pay.  The  feelings  of  the  col- 
onies were  formerly  the  feelings  of  Great  Britain.  Theirs 
were  foi-iiKM-ly  the  feelings  of  ]Mr.  TTaTiipden  when  called 
upon  for  the  payment  of  twenty  shillings.  Would  twenty 
shillings  have  mined  Mr.  Hampden's  fortune?  No!  but 
the  payment  of  half  twenty  shillings,  on  the  principle  it 
was  demanded,  would  have  made  him  a  slave.  It  is  the 
v.eight  of  that  preamble  of  which  3'ou  are  so  fond,  and  not 
the  weight  of  the  duty,  that  the  Americans  are  unable  and 
unwilling  to  bear. 

It  is  then,  sir,  upon  the  principle  of  this  measure,  and 
nothing  else,  that  we  are  at  issue.  It  is  a  principle  of 
political  expediency.  Your  Act  of  1767  asserts  that  it  is 
expedient  to  raise  a  revenue  in  America;  your  Act  of  17G9, 
which  takes  away  that  revenue,  contradicts  the  Act  of 
17G7,  and  by  something  much  stronger  than  words  asserts 
that  it  is  not  expedient.  It  is  a  reflection  upon  your  wis- 
dom to  persist  in  a  solemn  Parliamentary  declaration  of 
the  expediency  of  any  object  for  which  at  the  same  time 
you  make  no  sort  of  provision.  And  pray,  sir,  let  not  this 
circumstance  escape  you, — it  is  very  material :  that  the 
preamble  of  this  Act  which  we  wish  to  repeal  is  not  de- 
claratory  of  a  right,  as  some  gentlemen  seem  to  argue  it ;  it 
is  only  a  recital  of  the  expediency  of  a  certain  exercise  of  a 
right  supposed  already  to  have  been  asserted ;  an  exercise 
you  are  now  contending  for  by  ways  and  means  which 
you  confess,  though  they  were  obeyed,  to  be  utterly  insuf- 
ficient for  their  purpose.  You  are  therefore  at  this  mo- 
ment in  the  awkward  situation  of  fighting  for  a  phantom, 
a  quiddity,  a  thing  that  wants  not  only  a  substance,  but 
even  a  name;  for  a  thing  which  is  neither  abstract  right 
nor  profitable  enjoyment. 

They  tell  you,  sir,  that  your  dignity  is  tied  to  it.  I 
know  not  how  it  happens,  but  this  dignity  of  yours  is  a 
terrible  incumbrance  to  you;  for  it  has  of  late  been  ever 
at  war  with  your  interest,  your  equity,  and  every  idea  of 
your  policy.  Show  the  thing  you  contend  for  to  be  rea- 
son; show  it  to  be  common-sense;  show  it  to  be  the  means 


37(1  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

of  attaiiiiuG:  some  useful  end:  and  then  I  am  content  to 
allow  it  what  dianity  von  please.  But  what  dignity  is 
derived  from  i)erseverante  in  absurdity  is  more  than  ever 
I  could  discern.  The  honorable  j^entleman  has  said  well — 
indeed,  in  most  of  his  general  obseryations  I  agree  with 
him — he  says  that  this  subject  does  not  stand  as  it  did 
formerly.  Oh,  certainly  not  I  Eyery  hour  you  continue 
Oil  this  ill-chosen  ground,  your  difticulties  thicken  on  you; 
and  therefore  my  conclusion  is,  remove  from  a  bad  position 
as  (]uickly  as  you  can.  The  disgrace  and  the  necessity  of 
yielding,  both  of  them,  grow  upon  3'ou  every  hour  of  your 
delay. 


ON    CONCILIATION   WITH   AMERICA. 

From  the  Speech  delivered  in  the  House  of  Commons  in  1775. 

To  restore  order  and  repose  to  an  empire  so  great  and  so 
distracted  as  ours,  is,  merely  in  the  attempt,  an  undertak- 
ing that  would  ennoble  the  flights  of  the  highest  genius 
and  obtain  pardon  for  the  efforts  of  the  meanest  under- 
standing. Struggling  a  good  while  with  these  thoughts, 
by  degi-ees  I  felt  myself  more  firm.  I  derived  at  length 
some  confidence  from  what  in  other  circumstances  usually 
jjroduces  timidity.  I  grew  less  anxious,  even  from  the  idea 
of  my  own  insignificance.  Eor,  judging  of  what  you  are 
by  what  you  ought  to  be,  I  persuaded  myself  that  you 
would  not  reject  a  reasonable  proposition  because  it  had 
nothing  but  its  reason  to  recommend  it.  On  the  other 
hand,  being  totally  destitute  of  all  shadow  of  influence, 
natural  or  adventitious,  I  was  yery  sure  that  if  my  propo- 
sition were  futile  or  dangerous,  if  it  were  weakly  conceived 
or  improperly  timed,  there  was  nothing  exterior  to  it  of 
power  to  awe,  dazzle,  or  delude  you.  You  will  see  it  just 
as  it  is;  and  you  will  treat  it  just  as  it  deserves. 

The  pro})osition  is  Peace.  Not  Peace  through  the  me- 
dium of  War;  not  Peace  to  be  hunted  through  the  laby- 
rindi  of  intricate  and  endless  negotiations;  not  Peace  to 
arise  out  of  universal  discord,  fomented  from  principle  in 
all  parts  of  the  empire;  nor  Peace  to  depend  on  the  juridi- 


EDMUND    BURKE.  377 

cal  determination  of  perplexin<»-  questions,  or  the  precise 
nuirkiuij;-  the  shadowy  boundaries  of  a  complex  govern- 
ment. It  is  simple  Peace,  sought  in  its  natural  course 
and  in  its  ordinary  haunts.  It  is  Peace  sought  in  the 
spirit  of  Peace,  and  laid  in  principles  purely  pacific.  I 
propose  by  removing  the  ground  of  the  difference,  and  by 
restoring  the  former  nn^^u^pcctlng  confidence  of  the  colo- 
nies, in,  the  mother  country,  to  give  permanent  satisfaction 
to  your  peoi)le;  and  (far  from  a  scheme  of  ruling  by  dis- 
cord) to  reconcile  them  to  each  other  in  the  same  act  and 
by  the  bond  of  the  very  same  interest  which  reconciles 
them  to  British  government. 

My  idea  is  nothing  more.  Eefined  policy  ever  has  been 
the  parent  of  confusion,  and  ever  will  be  so,  as  long  as 
the  world  endures.  Plain  good  intention,  which  is  as 
easily  discovered  at  the  first  view  as  fraud  is  surely  de- 
tected at  last,  is,  let  me  say,  of  no  mean  force  in  the  gov- 
ernment of  mankind.  Genuine  simplicity  of  heart  is  an 
healing  and  cementing  principle.  My  plan,  therefore, 
being  formed  upon  the  most  simple  grounds  imaginable, 
may  disappoint  some  people  when  they  hear  it.  It  has 
nothing  to  recommend  it  to  the  pruriency  of  curious  ears. 
There  is  nothing  at  all  new  and  captivating  in  it.  It  has 
nothing  of  the  splendor  of  the  project  which  has  been 
lately  laid  upon  your  table  by  the  noble  lord  in  the  blue 
ribbon.  It  does  not  propose  to  fill  your  lobby  with  squab- 
bling colony  agents,  who  will  require  the  interposition  of 
your  mace  at  every  instant  to  keep  the  peace  amongst 
them.  It  does  not  institute  a  magnificent  auction  of 
finance,  where  captivated  provinces  come  to  general  ran- 
som by  bidding  against  each  other,  until  3'ou  knock  down 
the  hammer,  and  determine  a  proportion  of  payments  be- 
yond all  the  powers  of  algebra  to  equalize  and  settle. 

The  plan  which  I  shall  presume  to  suggest  derives,  how- 
ever, one  great  advantage  from  the  proposition  and  reg- 
istry of  that  noble  lord's  project.  The  idea  of  conciliation 
is  admissible.  First,  the  House,  in  accepting  the  resolu- 
tion moved  by  the  noble  lord,  has  admitted — notwithstand- 
ing the  menacing  front  of  our  address,  notwithstanding 
our  heaw  bills  of  pains  and  penalties — that  we  do  not 
think  ourselves  precluded  from  all  ideas  of  free  grace  and 
bounty. 


378  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

The  rioiise  has  jjone  farther :  it  has  declared  conciliation 
admissible,  prcrious  to  any  submission  on  the  part  of 
Amc>rica.  It  has  even  shot  a  good  deal  beyond  that 
mark,  and  has  admitted  that  the  complaints  of  our  for- 
mer mode  of  exerting  the  right  of  taxation  were  not  wholly 
unfounded.  That  right,  thus  exerted,  is  allowed  to  have 
something  reprehensible  in  it — something  unwise,  or  some- 
thinir  grievous:  since  in  the  midst  of  our  heat  and  resent- 
ment  we  of  ourselves  have  proposed  a  capital  alteration, 
and  in  order  to  get  rid  of  what  seemed  so  very  exception- 
able have  instituted  a  mode  that  is  altogether  new ;  one  that 
is  indeed  wholly  alien  from  all  the  ancient  methods  and 
forms  of  Pai'liament. 

The  principle  of  this  proceeding  is  large  enough  for  my 
purpose.  The  means  proposed  by  the  noble  lord  for  car- 
rying his  ideas  into  execution,  I  think  indeed  are  very  in- 
dilTerently  suited  to  the  end;  and  this  I  shall  endeavor  to 
show  you  before  I  sit  down.  But  for  the  present  I  take 
my  ground  on  the  admitted  principle.  I  mean  to  give 
peace.  Peace  implies  reconciliation;  and  where  there  has 
been  a  material  dispute,  reconciliation  does  in  a  manner 
always  imply  concession  on  the  one  part  or  on  the  other. 
In  this  state  of  things  I  make  no  difficulty  in  affirming  that 
the  proposal  ought  to  originate  from  us.  Great  and  ac- 
knowledged force  is  not  impaired,  either  in  effect  or  in 
opinion,  by  an  unwillingness  to  exert  itself.  The  superior 
power  may  offer  peace  with  honor  an«l  safety.  Such  an 
offer  from  such  a  power  will  be  attributed  to  magnanim- 
ity. But  the  concessions  of  the  weak  are  the  conces- 
sions of  fear.  When  such  a  one  is  disarmed,  he  is  wholly 
at  the  mercy  of  his  sujx-rior,  and  he  loses  forever  that 
time  and  those  chances  which,  as  they  happen  to  all  men, 
are  the  strength  and  resources  of  all  inferior  power. 

The  cai)ital  leading  questions  on  which  you  must  this 
day  decide  are  these  two:  First,  whether  you  ought  to 
conr-ede;  and  serondly,  what  your  concession  ought  to  be. 
On  the  first  of  these  questions  we  have  gained  (as  I  have 
just  taken  tlie  liberty  of  oi»serving  to  you)  some  ground. 
But  I  am  sensible  that  a  good  deal  more  is  still  to  be  done. 
Indeed,  sir,  to  criabb'  us  to  determine  both  on  the  one  and 
the  other  of  these  great  questions  with  a  firm  and  precise 
judgment,   I   tliink   it  may  be  necessary  to  consider  dis- 


EDMUND    BURKE.  379 

tinctly  the  true  nature  and  the  peculiar  circumstances  of 
the  object  \\iiich  we  have  before  us.  Because  after  all  our 
struj4i.^le,  whether  we  will  or  not,  we  must  govern  America 
accorciiug  to  that  nature  and  to  those  circumstances,  and 
not  according  to  our  own  imaginations  nor  according  to 
abstract  ideas  of  right;  by  no  means  according  to  mere 
general  theories  of  government,  the  resort  to  which  ap- 
pears to  me,  in  our  present  situation,  no  better  than  arrant 
trilling.  I  shall  therefore  endeavor,  with  your  leave,  to  lay 
before  you  some  of  the  most  material  of  these  circum- 
stances in  as  full  and  as  clear  a  manner  as  I  am  able  to 
state  them. 


EXTRACTS  FROM  'LETTER  TO  A  NOBLE  LORD.' 

I  know  not  how  it  has  happened,  but  it  really  seems, 
that,  whilst  his  Grace  was  meditating  his  well-considered 
censure  upon  me,  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  sleep.  Homer  nods ; 
and  the  Duke  of  Bedford  may  dream;  and  as  dreams  (even 
his  golden  dreams)  are  apt  to  be  ill-pieced  and  incongru- 
ously put  together,  his  Grace  preserved  his  idea  of  reproach 
to  me,  but  took  the  subject  matter  from  the  Crown  grants 
to  his  own  family.  This  is  "  the  stuff  of  which  his  dreams 
are  made."  In  that  way  of  putting  things  together,  his 
Grace  is  perfectly  in  the  right.  The  grants  to  the 
House  of  Russell  were  so  enormous,  as  not  only  to  out- 
rage economy,  but  even  to  stagger  credibility.  The  Duke 
of  Bedford  is  the  Leviathan  among  all  the  creatures  of  the 
Crown.  He  tumbles  about  his  unwieldy  bulk;  he  plays 
and  frolics  in  the  ocean  of  the  Royal  bounty.  Huge  as 
he  is,  and  whilst  "  he  lies  floating  many  a  rood,"  he  is 
still  a  creature.  His  ribs,  his  fins,  his  whalebone,  his  blub- 
ber, the  very  spiracles  through  which  he  spouts  a  torrent  of 
brine  against  his  origin,  and  covers  me  all  over  with  the 
spray, — everything  of  him  and  about  him  is  from  the 
Throne.  Is  it  for  him  to  question  the  dispensation  of  the 
Royal  favor? 

T  really  am  at  a  loss  to  draw  any  sort  of  parallel  between 
the  public  merits  of  his  Grace,  by  which  he  justifies  the 
grants  he  holds,  and  these  services  of  mine  on  the  favor- 


380  /A'7.s7/    LITERATURE. 

able  construction  of  which  I  have  obtained  what  his  Grace 
so  much  disapproves.  In  private  life,  I  have  not  at  all 
the  honor  of  accjuaintance  with  the  noble  Duke.  But  I 
tlu)u.iiht  to  i)resunie,  and  it  costs  me  nothinj?  to  do  so,  that 
lie  abundantly  deserves  the  esteem  and  love  of  all  who 
live  with  him.  But  as  to  public  service,  why  truly  it  would 
not  be  more  ridiculous  for  me  to  compare  myself  in  rank, 
in  fortune,  in  splendid  descent,  in  youth,  in  strength  or 
hiiure,  N\  ith  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  than  to  make  a  parallel 
between  his  services  and  my  attempts  to  be  useful  to  my 
country. 

It  would  not  be  gross  adulation,  but  uncivil  irony,  to 
say,  that  he  has  any  public  merit  of  his  own  to  keep  alive 
the  idea  of  the  services  by  which  his  vast  landed  Pensions 
were  ol)tained.  My  merits,  whatever  they  are,  are  origi- 
nal and  personal,  his  are  derivative.  It  is  his  ancestor, 
the  original  pensioner,  that  has  laid  up  this  inexhausti- 
ble fund  of  merit,  which  makes  his  Grace  so  very  delicate 
and  exceptions  about  the  merit  of  all  other  grantees  of  the 
Crown.  Had  he  permitted  me  to  remain  in  quiet,  I  shouhl 
have  said  't  is  his  estate;  that 's  enough.  It  is  his  by  law; 
wliat  have  I  to  do  with  it  or  its  history?  lie  would 
naturallv  have  said  on  his  side,  'tis  this  man's  fortune — 
he  is  as  good  now,  as  my  ancestor  was  two  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago.  I  am  a  young  man  with  very  old  pensions; 
he  is  an  old  man  with  very  young  pensions, — that 's  all? 

Why  will  his  Grace,  by  attacking  me,  force  me  reluc- 
tantly to  comi)are  my  little  merit  with  that  which  obtained 
from  the  Crown  those  prodigies  of  profuse  donation  by 
which  he  tramples  on  the  mediocrity  of  humble  and  labo- 
rious individuals?  I  would  willingly  leave  him  to  the 
Herald's  Colege,  which  the  philosophy  of  the  -sans  cHlottcs 
(])roudei-  by  far  than  all  the  Garters  and  Norroys  and 
Claren<i('ux  and  Bouge  Dragons  that  ever  pranced  in  a 
procession  of  what  his  friends  call  aristocrates  and  des- 
pots) will  abolish  with  contumely  and  scorn.  These  his- 
torians, recorders,  and  l)lazoners  of  virtues  and  arms,  dif- 
fer wholly  from  that  other  description  of  historians,  who 
never  assign  any  act  of  ])oliticiaTis  to  a  good  motive. 
These  geiifle  historians,  on  the  contrary,  dip  their  pens  in 
nothing  but  the  milk  of  human  kindness.  They  seek  no 
further  for  merit  than  the  preamble  of  a  patent,  or  the  in- 


EDMUND    BURKE.  381 

scription  on  a  tomb.  With  tliom  every  man  created  a  peer 
is  tii'st  ail  hero  ready  made.  Tliey  jiidjuc  of  every  man's 
capacity  Tor  ollice  by  the  oilices  he  has  filled ;  and  the  more 
offices  the  more  ability.  Every  General-officer  with  them 
is  a  Marlborouj^h ;  every  statesman  a  Burleigh ;  every 
judge  a  Murray  or  a  Yorke.  They,  who  alive  were 
laughed  at  or  pitied  by  all  their  acquaintance,  make  as 
good  a  figure,  as  the  best  of  them  in  the  pages  of  Giiillim, 
Edmonson,  or  Collins. 

To  these  recorders,  so  full  of  good  nature  to  the  great 
and  prosperous,  I  would  willingly'  leave  the  first  Baron 
Russell  and  Earl  of  Bedford,  and  the  merits  of  his  grants. 
But  the  aulnager,  the  weigher,  the  meter  of  grants,  will 
not  suffer  us  to  acquiesce  in  the  judgment  of  the 
Prince  reigning  at  the  time  when  they  were  made.  They 
are  never  good  to  those  who  earn  them.  Well  then,  since 
the  new  grantees  have  war  made  on  them  by  the  old,  and 
that  the  word  of  the  Sovereign  is  not  to  be  taken,  let  us 
lurn  our  eyes  to  history,  in  which  great  men  have  always 
a  pleasure  in  contemplating  the  heroic  origin  of  their 
house. 

The  first  peer  of  the  name,  the  first  purchaser  of  the 
grants,  was  a  Mr.  Russell,  a  person  of  an  ancient  gentle- 
man's family  raised  by  being  a  minion  of  Henry  the 
Eighth.  As  there  generally  is  some  resemblance  of  char- 
acter to  create  these  relations,  the  favorite  was  in  all 
likelihood  much  such  another  as  his  master.  The  first  of 
those  immoderate  grants  was  not  taken  from  the  ancient 
demesne  of  the  Crown,  but  from  the  recent  confiscation 
of  the  ancient  nobility  of  the  land.  The  lion  having 
sucked  the  blood  of  his  prey,  threw  the  carcass  to  the 
jackal  in  waiting.  Having  tasted  once  the  food  of  con- 
fiscation, the  favorites  became  fierce  and  ravenous. 
This  worthy  favorite's  first  grant  was  from  the  lay  nobil- 
ity. The  second,  infinitely  improving  on  the  enormity  of 
the  first,  was  from  the  plunder  of  the  church.  In  truth 
his  Grace  is  somewhat  excusable  for  his  dislike  to  a  grant 
like  mine,  not  only  in  its  quality,  but  in  its  kind  so  dif- 
ferent from  his  own. 

Mine  was  from  a  mild  and  benevolent  sovereign;  his 
from  Henry  the  Eighth. 

Mine  had  not  its  fund  in  the  murder  of  any  innocent 


3S2  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

person  of  illustrious  rank,  or  in  the  pillaf»;e  of  any  botly  of 
unolTendinu-  men.  His  i»rants  were  from  the  aniiregate 
and  ronsolidated  funds  of  juduments  iniquitously  lej;al, 
and  from  possessions  voluntarily  surrendered  by  the  law- 
ful proprietors  with  the  i^ibbet  at  their  door. 

The  merit  of  the  grantee  whom  he  derives  from,  was  that 
of  being  a  prompt  and  greedy  instrument  of  a  levelling 
tyrant,  who  oppressed  all  descriptions  of  his  people,  but 
Avlio  fell  with  ]>arti(ular  fui-y  on  everything  that  was  great 
and  nohlc.  Mine  has  been,  in  endeavoring  to  screen 
every  man,  in  every  class,  fi'om  oppression,  and  particu- 
larly in  defending  the  high  and  eminent,  who  in  bad  times 
of  confiscating  Princes,  confiscating  chief  Governors,  or 
con lisca ting  Demagogues,  are  the  most  exposed  to  jeal- 
ousv,  avarice,  and  envy. 

The  merit  of  the  original  grantee  of  his  Grace's  pensions, 
was  in  giving  his  hand  to  the  work,  and  partaking  the 
si)oil  with  a  Prince,  who  plundered  a  part  of  his  national 
cliurch  of  his  time  and  country.  ^line  was  in  defending 
the  whole  of  the  national  church  of  my  own  time  and  my 
own  country,  and  the  whole  of  the  national  churches  of  all 
countries  from  the  principles  and  the  examples  which 
lead  to  ecclesiastical  pillage,  thence  to  comtempt  of  all 
prescriptive  titles,  thence  to  the  pillage  of  all  property, 
and  thence  to  universal  desolation. 

The  merit  of  the  origin  of  his  Grace's  fortune  was  in  be- 
ing a  favorite  and  chief  adviser  to  a  Prince,  who  left  no 
liberty  to  their  native  country.  My  endeavor  was  to  ob- 
tain lil)erty  for  the  municipal  country  in  which  I  was  born, 
and  for  all  descriptions  and  denominations  in  it — mine 
was  to  support  with  unrelaxing  vigilance  every  right, 
every  privih'g(\  ovovy  franchise,  in  this  my  adopted,  my 
dearer  and  more  comprehensive  country;  and  not  only  to 
jtreserve  those  rights  in  this  chief  seat  of  empire,  but  in 
every  nation,  in  every  land,  in  every  climate,  language,  and 
religion,  in  tlie  vast  domain  that  still  is  under  the  pro- 
tect irm,  and  the  larger  that  was  once  under  the  protec- 
tion, of  the  British  Crown. 


::,i 


EDMUXD    BURKE.  383 

EXTRACTS    FROM    THE    IMPEACHMENT    OF 
WARREN    HASTINGS. 

Hastings,  the  lieutenant  of  a  British  monarch,  claim- 
ing absolute  dominion  I  From  whom,  in  the  name  of  all 
that  was  strange,  could  he  derive,  or  how  had  he  the  au- 
dacity to  claim,  such  authority?  He  could  not  have  de- 
rived it  from  the  East  India  Company,  for  tliey  had  it 
not  to  confer.  He  could  not  have  received  it  from  his  sov- 
ereign, for  the  sovereign  had  it  not  to  bestow.  It  could  not 
have  been  given  by  either  house  of  Parliament — for  it  was 
unknown  to  the  British  Constitution  I  Yet  Mr.  Hastings, 
acting  under  the  assumption  of  his  power,  had  avowed  his 
rejection  of  British  acts  of  Parliament,  had  gloried  in  the 
success  which  he  pretended  to  derive  from  their  violation, 
and  had  on  every  occasion  attempted  to  justify  the  exer- 
cise of  arbitrary  power  in  its  greatest  extent.  Having  thus 
avowedly  acted  in  opposition  to  the  laws  of  Great  Britain, 
he  sought  a  shield  in  vain  in  other  laws  and  other  usages. 
Would  he  appeal  to  the  Mahomedan  law  for  his  justifica- 
tion? In  the  whole  Koran  there  was  not  a  single  text 
which  could  justify  the  power  he  had  assumed.  Would  he 
appeal  to  the  Gentoo  code?  Vain  there  the  effort  also; 
a  S3"stem  of  stricter  justice,  or  more  pure  morality,  did 
not  exist.  It  was,  therefore,  equal  whether  he  fled  for 
shelter  to  a  British  court  of  justice  or  a  Gentoo  pagoda; 
he  in  either  instance  stood  convicted  as  a  daring  violator 
of  the  laws.  And  what,  my  lords,  is  opposed  to  all  this 
practice  of  tyrants  and  usurpers,  which  Mr. Hastings  takes 
for  his  rule  and  guidance?  He  endeavors  to  find  devia- 
tions from  legal  government,  and  then  instructs  his  coun- 
sel to  say  that  I  have  asserted  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
arbitrary  power  in  the  East. 

But,  my  lords,  we  all  know  that  there  has  been  arbi- 
trary power  in  India;  that  tyrants  have  usurped  it;  and 
that  in  some  instances  princes,  otherwise  meritorious, 
have  violated  the  liberties  of  the  people,  and  have  been 
lawfully  deposed  for  such  violation.  I  do  not  deny 
that  there  are  robberies  on  Hounslow  Heath ;  that  there 
are  such  things  as  forgeries,  burglaries,  and  murders; 
but  T  say  that  these  acts  are  against  law,  and  whoever 
commits  them  commits  illegal  acts.     When  a  man  is  to  de- 


3S4  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

fi'iul  himself  against  a  charge  of  crime,  it  is  not  instances 
of  simihu"  viohition  of  law  that  are  to  be  the  standard  of  his 
defense.  A  man  may  as  well  say,  ''  I  robbed  upon  Houns- 
low  Heath,  but  hundreds  robbed  there  before  me";  to 
\\hieh  I  answer,  "  The  law  has  forbidden  you  to  rob  there, 
and  I  will  hang  you  for  having  violated  the  law,  notwith- 
standinu"  the  long  list  of  similar  violations  which  you  have 
IH'oduced  as  precedents."  No  doubt  princes  have  violated 
the  laws  of  this  country;  thc}^  have  suffered  for  it.  No- 
bles have  violated  the  law;  their  privileges  have  not  pro- 
tected them  from  punishment.  Common  people  have  vio- 
lated the  law;  they  have  hanged  for  it.  I  know  no  human 
being  exem]>t  from  the  law.  The  law  is  a  security  of  the 
])eople  of  England;  it  is  the  security  of  the  people  of  India; 
it  is  the  security  of  every  person  that  is  governed,  and  of 
every  person  that  governs. 

There  is  but  one  law  for  all,  namely,  that  law  which  gov- 
erns all  law,  the  law  of  our  Creator,  the  law  of  humanity, 
justice,  ecjuity — the  law  of  nature  and  of  nations.  So  far 
as  any  laws  fortify  this  primeval  law,  and  give  it  more 
precision,  more  energy,  more  effect  by  their  declarations, 
such  laws  enter  into  the  sanctuary,  and  participate  in  the 
sacredness  of  its  character.  But  the  man  who  quotes  as 
precedents  the  abuses  of  tyrants  and  robl)ers,  pollutes  the 
very  fountain  of  justice,  destroys  the  foundation  of  all 
law,  and  thereby  removes  the  onl}'  safeguard  against  evil 
men,  whether  governing  or  governed — the  guard  which 
prevents  governors  from  becoming  tyrants,  and  the  gov- 
erned from  becoming  rebels.  .  .  . 

Debi  Sing  and  his  instruments  suspected,  and  in  a  few 
cases  Ihcy  suspected  justly,  that  the  country  peoi)le  had 
]»ijrb)ined  from  their  own  estates,  and  had  hidden  in  secret 
places  in  the  circumjacent  deserts,  some  small  reserve  of 
their  own  grain  to  maintain  themselves  during  the  unpro- 
ductive months  of  the  year,  and  to  leave  some  hope  for  a 
future  season.  But  the  under  tyrants  knew  that  the  de- 
mands of  ]\Ir.  Hastings  would  admit  no  plea  for  delay, 
niucii  less  for  subtraction  of  his  l)ribe,  and  that  he  would 
not  abate  a  shilling  of  it  to  the  wants  of  the  whole  human 
race.  These  hoards,  real  or  su])posed,  not  being  discov- 
ered l)y  menaces  and  imprisonment,  they  fell  upon  the 
last  resource,  the  naked  bodies  of  the  i)eople.     And  here, 


EDMUND    BURKE.  380 

my  lords,  began  such  a  scene  of  cruelties  and  tortures,  as 
I  believe  no  history  has  ever  presented  to  the  indignation 
of  the  world;  such  as  I  am  sure,  in  the  most  barbarous 
ages,  no  politic  tyranny,  no  fanatic  persecution  has  ever 
3'et  exceeded.  Mr.  Patterson,  the  commissioner  appointed 
to  inquire  into  the  state  of  the  country,  makes  his  own 
apology  and  mine  for  opening  this  scene  of  horrors  to  you 
in  the  following  words:  "That  the  punishment  inflicted 
upon  the  ryots  both  of  Rungpore  and  Dinagepore  for  non- 
l)ayment  were  in  many  instances  of  such  a  nature  that  I 
would  rather  wish  to  draw  a  veil  over  them  than  shock 
your  feelings  by  the  detail.  But  that,  however  disagree- 
able the  task  may  be  to  myself,  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
for  the  sake  of  justice,  humanity,  and  the  honor  of  gov- 
ernment that  they  should  be  exposed,  to  be  prevented  in 
future." 

:My  lords,  they  began  by  winding  cords  round  the  fingers 
of  the  unhappy  freeholders  of  those  provinces,  until  they 
clung  to  and  were  almost  incorporated  with  one  another; 
and  then  they  hammered  wedges  of  iron  between  them, 
until,  regardless  of  the  cries  of  the  sufferers,  they  had 
bruised  to  pieces  and  for  ever  crippled  those  poor  honest, 
innocent,  laborious  hands,  which  had  never  been  raised 
to  their  mouths  but  with  a  penurious  and  scanty  propor- 
tion of  the  fruits  of  their  own  soil;  but  those  fruits 
(denied  to  the  wants  of  their  own  children)  have  for  more 
than  fifteen  years  past  furnislied  the  investment  for  our 
trade  with  China,  and  been  sent  annually  out,  and  without 
recompense,  to  purchase  for  us  that  delicate  meal,  with 
which  your  lordships,  and  all  this  auditory,  and  all  this 
country  have  begun  every  day  for  these  fifteen  years  at 
their  expense.  To  those  beneficent  hands  that  labor 
for  our  benefit  the  return  of  the  British  government  has 
been  cords  and  wedges.  But  there  is  a  place  where  thCvSe 
crippled  and  disabled  hands  will  act  with  resistless  power. 
What  is  it  that  they  will  not  pull  down,  when  they  are 
lifted  to  heaven  against  their  oppressors?  Then  what  can 
withstand  such  hands?  Can  the  power  that  crushed  and 
destroyed  them?  Powerful  in  prayer,  let  us  at  least  dep- 
recate, and  thus  endeavor  to  secure  ourselves  from  the 

vengeance  which  these  mashed  and  disabled  hands  may 
25 


3SG  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

pull  down  upon  ns.    My  lords,  it  is  an  awfnl  consideration. 
Let  us  thiuk  of  it. 

But  to  pursue  this  nielanclioly  but  necessary  detail.  I 
am  next  to  ojuni  to  your  lordships  what  1  am  hereafter  to 
prove,  that  the  most  substantial  and  leadini?  yeomen,  the 
resi>onsible  farmers,  the  parochial  magistrates  and  chiefs 
of  villa<ies,  were  tied  two  and  two  by  the  lei;s  together; 
and  their  t(»rmentors,  throwing  them  witli  their  heads 
downwards  over  a  bar,  beat  them  on  the  soles  of  the  feet 
with  ratans,  until  tlie  nails  fell  from  their  toes;  and  then, 
attacking  them  at  their  heads,  as  they  hung  downward,  as 
before  at  their  feet,  they  beat  them  with  sticks  and  other 
instruments  of  blind  fui-y,  until  the  blood  gushed  out  at 
their  eves,  moutlis,  and  noses. 

Not  thinking  that  the  ordinary  whips  and  cudgels,  even 
so  administered,  were  sufficient,  to  others  (and  often  also 
to  the  same,  who  had  suffered  as  I  have  stated)  they  ap- 
plied, instead  of  rattan  and  bamboo,  whips  made  of  the 
branches  of  the  bale-tree — a  tree  full  of  sharp  and  strong 
thorns,  which  tear  the  skin  and  lacerate  the  flesh  far  worse 
than  ordinary  scourges. 

For  others,  exploring  with  a  searching  and  inquisitive 
malice,  stimulated  by  an  insatiate  rapacity,  all  the  devious 
paths  of  nature  for  whatever  is  most  unfriendly  to  man, 
they  made  rods  of  a  plant  highly  caustic  and  poisonous, 
called  hcchrttcci,  every  wound  of  which  festers  and  gan- 
grenes, adds  double  and  treble  to  the  present  torture, 
leaves  a  crust  of  leprous  sores  upon  the  body,  and  often 
ends  in  the  destruction  of  life  itself. 

At  night  these  poor  innocent  sufferers,  those  martyrs  of 
avarice  and  extortion,  were  brought  into  dungeons;  and 
in  the  season  when  nature  takes  refuge  in  insensibility 
from  all  the  miseries  and  cares  which  v.ait  on  life,  they 
were  three  times  scourged  and  made  to  reckon  the  watches 
of  the  night  by  periods  and  intervals  of  torment.  They 
were  then  led  out  in  the  severe  depth  of  winter — which 
there  at  certain  seasons  would  be  severe  to  any,  to  the 
Indians  is  most  severe  and  almost  intolerable — they  were 
led  out  before  break  of  day,  and,  stiff  and  sore  as  they 
were  with  the  bruises  and  wounds  of  the  night,  were 
jdunged  into  water;  and  whilst  their  jaws  clung  togetlier 
with  the  cold,  and  their  bodies  were  rendered  infinitely 


EDMUXD    BURKE.  387 

more  sensible,  the  blows  and  stripes  were  renewed  upon 
their  backs;  and  then,  dcliverinj]^  them  over  to  soldiers, 
they  were  sent  into  their  farms  and  villaj^es  to  discover 
where  a  few  handfuls  of  grain  might  be  found  concealed, 
or  to  extract  some  loan  from  the  remnants  of  compassion 
and  courage  not  subdued  in  those  who  had  reason  to  fear 
that  their  own  turn  of  torment  would  be  next,  that  they 
should  succeed  them  in  the  same  punishment,  and  that 
their  very  humanity,  being  taken  as  a  proof  of  their  wealtii, 
would  subject  them  (as  it  did  in  many  cases  subject  them) 
to  the  same  inhuman  tortures.  After  this  circuit  of  the 
day  through  their  plundered  and  ruined  villages,  they 
were  remanded  at  night  to  the  same  prison;  wliipped  as 
before  at  their  return  to  the  dungeon,  and  at  morning 
whipped  at  their  leaving  it;  and  then  sent  as  before  to 
purchase,  by  begging  in  the  day,  the  reiteration  of  the  tor- 
ture in  the  night.  Days  of  menace,  insult,  and  extortion- 
nights  of  bolts,  fetters,  and  flagellation — succeeded  to  each 
other  in  the  same  round,  and  for  a  long  time  made  up  all 
the  vicissitudes  of  life  to  these  miserable  people. 

But  there  are  persons  whose  fortitude  could  bear  their 
own  suffering;  there  are  men  who  are  hardened  by  their 
very  pains;  and  the  mind,  strengthened  even  by  the  tor- 
ments of  the  body,  rises  with  a  strong  defiance  against  its 
oppressor.  They  were  assaulted  on  the  side  of  sympathy. 
Children  were  scourged  almost  to  death  in  the  presence 
of  their  parents.  This  was  not  enough.  The  son  and 
father  were  bound  close  together,  face  to  face,  and  body  to 
body,  and  in  that  situation  cruelly  lashed  together,  so  that 
the  blow  which  escaped  the  father  fell  upon  the  son,  and 
the  blow  which  missed  the  son  wound  over  the  back  of 
the  parent.  The  circumstances  were  combined  by  so  subtle 
a  cruelty  that  every  stroke  which  did  not  excruciate  the 
sense  should  wound  and  lacerate  the  sentiments  and  affec- 
tions of  nature. 

On  the  same  principle,  and  for  the  same  ends,  virgins 
who  had  never  seen  the  sun  were  dragged  from  the  inmost 
sanctuaries  of  their  houses.  .  .  .  Wives  were  torn  from 
the  arms  of  their  husbands,  and  suffered  the  same  flagi- 
tious wrongs,  which  w^ere  indeed  hid  in  the  bottom  of  the 
dungeons,  in  which  their  honor  and  their  liberty  were 
buried  together. 


388  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

The  -women  thus  treated  lost  their  caste.  My  lords,  we 
are  uot  here  to  coinineiid  or  blame  the  institutions  and 
prejudices  of  a  Avhole  race  of  i)eople,  radicated  in  them  by 
a  loun-  suciession  of  ai;es,  on  which  no  reason  or  argument, 
on  which  no  vicissitudes  of  things,  no  mixture  of  men,  or 
foreign  conquests  have  been  able  to  make  the  smallest  im- 
pression. The  aboriginal  Gentoo  inhabitants  are  all  dis- 
persed into  tribes  or  castes,  each  caste,  born  to  have  an  in- 
variable rank,  rights,  and  descriptions  of  employment;  so 
that  one  caste  t^mnot  by  any  means  pass  into  another. 
With  the  Gentoos  certain  impurities  or  disgraces,  though 
without  any  guilt  of  the  party,  infer  loss  of  caste;  and 
when  the  highest  caste  (that  of  the  Brahmin,  which  is  not 
only  noble  but  sacred)  is  lost,  the  person  who  loses  it  does 
not  slide  down  into  one  lower  but  reputable — he  is  wholly 
driven  from  all  honest  society.  All  the  relations  of  life 
are  at  once  dissolved.  His  parents  are  no  longer  his  par- 
ents; his  wife  is  no  longer  his  wife;  his  children,  no  longer 
his,  are  no  longer  to  regard  him  as  their  father.  It  is  some- 
thing far  worse  than  complete  outlawry,  complete  at- 
tainder, and  universal  excommunication.  It  is  a  pollution 
even  to  touch  him,  and  if  he  touches  any  of  his  old  caste 
they  are  justified  in  putting  him  to  death.  Contagion, 
leprosy,  plague,  are  not  so  much  shunned.  No  honest  oc- 
cupation can  be  followed.  He  becomes  an  HaUchorc,  if 
(which  is  rare)  he  survives  that  miserable  degradation. 

Your  lordshii)s  will  not  wonder  that  these  monstrous 
and  oppressive  demands,  exacted  with  such  tortures,  threw 
the  whole  province  into  despair.  They  abandoned  their 
crops  on  the  ground.  The  people  in  a  body  would  have 
fled  out  of  its  confines;  but  bands  of  soldiers  invested  the 
avenues  of  the  province,  and,  making  a  line  of  circumvalla- 
tion,  drove  back  those  wretches,  who  sought  exile  as  a  re- 
lief, into  the  prison  of  tlieir  native  soil.  Not  suffered  to 
quit  tlie  district,  they  fled  to  the  many  wild  thickets  which 
oppression  had  scattered  through  it,  and  sought  amongst 
the  juDgles  and  dens  of  tigei-s  a  rc^fuge  from  the  tyranny  of 
Wari'en  Unstings.  Not  able  long  to  exist  here,  pressed  at 
once  by  wild  beasts  and  famine,  the  same  despair  drove 
them  ])ack;  and,  seeking  their  last  resource  in  arms,  the 
most  quiet,  the  most  passive,  the  most  timid  of  the  human 
race  rose  up  in  an  universal  insurrection,  and  (what  will 


EDMUND    BURKE.  389 

always  happen  in  jiopular  tumults)  the  effects  of  the  fury 
of  the  people  fell  on  the  meaner  and  sometimes  the  re- 
luctant instruments  of  the  tyranny,  who  in  several  i)laces 
were  massacred. 

The  insurrection  bej^an  in  Runjipore,  and  soon  spread 
its  tire  to  the  nei<i;hboriuijj  provinces,  which  had  Ix'cu 
harassed  by  the  same  person  with  the  same  oppressions. 
The  English  chief  in  tiiat  province  had  been  the  silent 
witness,  most  probably  the  abettor  and  accomplice,  of  all 
these  horrors.  He  called  in  first  irregular,  and  then  regu- 
lar troops,  who  by  dreadful  and  universal  military  execu- 
tion got  the  better  of  the  impotent  resistance  of  unarmed 
and  undisciplined  despair.  I  am  tired  with  the  detail  of 
the  cruelties  of  peace.  I  spare  you  those  of  a  cruel  and  in- 
human war,  and  of  the  executions  which,  without  law  or 
process,  or  even  the  shadow  of  authority,  were  ordered  by 
the  English  revenue  chief  in  that  province. 

In  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  England,  I  charge  all 
this  villainy  upon  Warren  Hastings,  in  this  last  moment 
of  my  application  to  you. 

My  lords,  what  is  it  that  we  want  here  to  a  great  act  of 
national  justice?  Do  we  want  a  cause,  my  lords?  You 
have  the  cause  of  oppressed  princes,  of  undone  women  of 
the  first  rank,  of  desolated  provinces,  and  of  wasted  king- 
doms. 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  lords?  When  was  there  so 
much  iniquity  ever  laid  to  the  charge  of  any  one?  No,  my 
lords,  you  must  not  look  to  punish  any  other  such  de- 
linquent from  India.  Warren  Hastings  has  not  left  sub- 
stance enough  in  India  to  nourish  such  another  delinquent. 

My  lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want?  You  have  before 
you  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain  as  prosecutors,  and 
I  believe,  my  lords,  that  the  sun  in  his  beneficent  prog- 
ress round  the  world  does  not  behold  a  more  nlorious 
sight  than  that  of  men,  separated  from  a  remote  people  by 
the  material  bonds  and  barriers  of  nature,  united  by  the 
bond  of  a  social  and  moral  community — all  the  Commons 
of  England  resenting  as  their  own  the  indignities  and 
cruelties  that  are  offered  to  all  the  people  of  India. 

Do  we  want  a  tribunal?  IMy  lords,  no  example  of  an- 
tiquity, nothing  in  the  modern  world,  nothing  in  the  range 
of  human  imagination,  can  supply  us  with  a  tribunal  like 


300  IRl.^H    LITERATURE. 

this.  3Iv  lords,  here  we  see  virtiiallv  iu  the  mind's  eve 
that  sacred  majesty  of  the  Crown,  under  whose  authority 
you  sit,  and  whose  power  jou  exercise.  We  see  in  tliat 
invisible  authority,  what  we  all  feel  in  reality  and  life,  the 
beneficent  powers  and  protectinj^  justice  of  his  Majesty. 
We  have  here  the  heir-appaient  to  the  Crown,  such  as  the 
fond  wishes  of  the  people  of  England  wish  an  heir-ap- 
parent to  the  Crown  to  be.  AVe  have  here  all  the  branches 
of  the  royal  family  in  a  situation  between  majesty  and 
subjection,  between  the  sovereiii;n  and  the  subject,  offerinij; 
a  pledge  in  that  situation  for  the  support  of  the  rights  of 
the  Crown  and  the  liberties  of  the  people,  both  which  ex- 
tremities they  touch.  My  lords,  we  have  a  great  heredi- 
tary peerage  here — those  who  have  their  own  honor,  the 
honor  of  tlieir  ancestors  and  of  their  posterity,  to  guard, 
and  who  will  justify,  as  they  always  have  justified,  that 
provision  in  the  Constitution  by  which  justice  is  made 
an  hereditary  office.  My  lords,  we  have  here  a  new  nobility 
w  ho  have  risen  and  exalted  themselves  by  various  merits, 
by  great  military  services,  which  have  extended  the  fame 
of  this  country  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun;  we  have 
those  who,  by  various  civil  merits  and  various  civil  tal- 
ents, have  been  exalted  to  a  situation  which  they  well  de- 
serve, and  in  which  they  will  justify  the  favor  of  their 
sovereign  and  the  good  opinion  of  their  fellow-subjects, 
and  make  them  rejoice  to  see  those  virtuous  characters, 
that  were  the  other  day  upon  a  level  with  them,  now  ex- 
alted above  them  in  rank,  but  feeling  with  them  in  sym- 
pathy what  they  felt  in  common  with  them  before.  We 
liave  persons  exalted  from  the  practice  of  the  law — from 
the  place  in  which  they  administered  high  tliough  subor- 
dinate justice — to  a  seat  here,  to  enlighten  with  their 
knowledge  and  to  strengthen  with  their  votes  those  prin- 
ciples which  have  distinguished  the  courts  in  which  they 
have  presided. 

^ly  lords,  you  liave  here  also  the  lights  of  our  religion; 
you  have  the  bishops  of  England.  .  .  .  You  have  the 
representatives  of  that  religion  which  says  that  their 
Cod  is  love,  that  the  very  vital  spirit  of  their  institution 
is  charity — a  religion  which  so  much  hates  oppression, 
that  when  the  (jod  whom  we  adore  appeared  in  human 
form,  lie  tlid  not  appear  in  a  form  of  greatness  and  maj- 


I 


EDMUND    BURKE.  391 

esty,  but  in  sympatliy  with  the  lowest  of  the  people,  and 
thereby  made  it  a  firm  and  ruling  principle  that  their  wel- 
fare was  the  object  of  all  governuient,  since  the  Person  who 
was  the  Master  of  nature  chose  to  appear  himself  in  a  sub- 
ordinate situation.  These  are  the  considerations  which 
influence  them,  which  animate  them,  and  will  animate 
them  against  all  oppression,  knowing  that  He  who  is  called 
first  among  them  and  first  among  us  all,  both  of  the  flock 
that  is  fed  and  of  those  who  feed  it,  made  himself  the  ser- 
vant of  all. 

My  lords,  these  are  the  securities  which  we  have  in  all 
the  constituent  parts  of  the  body  of  this  house.  We  know 
them,  we  reckon,  rest,  upon  them,  and  commit  safely  the 
interests  of  India  and  of  humanity  into  your  hands. 
Therefore  it  is  with  confidence  that,  ordered  by  the  Com- 
mons, 

I  impeach  Warren  Hastings,  Esquire,  of  high  crimes 
and  misdemeanors. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  all  the  Commons  of  Great 
Britain  in  Parliament  assembled,  whose  parliamentary 
trust  he  has  betrayed. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  Great 
Britain,  whose  national  character  he  has  dishonored. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people  of  India,  whose 
laws,  rights,  and  liberties  he  has  subverted,  whose  prop- 
erties he  has  destroyed,  whose  country  he  has  laid  waste 
and  desolate. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  and  by  virtue  of  those  eternal 
laws  of  justice  which  he  has  violated. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  human  nature  itself, 
which  he  has  cruelly  outraged,  injured,  and  oppressed  in 
both  sexes,  in  every  age,  rank,  situation,  and  condition 
of  life. 


CHATHAM  AND  TOWNSHEND. 

From  '  The  Speech  on  American  Taxation,'  delivered  April,  1774. 

I  have  done  with  the  third  period  of  your  policy,  that  of 
your  repeal,  and  the  return  of  your  ancient  system  and 
your  ancient  tranquillity  and  concord.     Sir,  this  period 


392  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

was  Dot  as  long-  as  it  was  happy.  Another  scene  was 
opened,  and  other  actors  appeared  on  the  stage.  The  state, 
in  the  condition  I  have  described  it,  was  delivered  into  the 
hands  of  l^ord  Chatham — a  groat  and  celebrated  name;  a 
name  that  keeps  the  name  of  this  country  respectable  in 
every  other  on  the  globe.    It  may  be  truly  called, 

"  Clarum  et  venerabile  noinen 
Gentibus,  et  niultuni  nostroe  quod  proderat  urbi." 

Sir,  the  venerable  age  of  this  great  man,  his  merited 
rank,  his  superior  eloijuence,  his  splendid  qualities,  his 
eminent  services,  the  vast  space  he  filled  in  the  eye  of  man- 
kind, and,  more  than  all  the  rest,  his  fall  from  power, 
which  like  death,  canonizes  and  sanctifies  a  great  char- 
acter, will  not  suffer  me  to  censure  any  part  of  his  con- 
duct. I  am  afi-aid  to  flatter  him;  I  am  sure  I  am  not  dis- 
posed to  blame  him.  Let  those  who  have  betrayed  him  by 
their  adulation  insult  him  with  their  malevolence.  But 
what  I  do  not  presume  to  censure  I  may  have  leave  to  la- 
ment. For  a  wise  man  he  seemed  to  me  at  that  time  to 
be  governed  too  much  by  general  maxims.  I  speak  with 
the  freedom  of  history,  and  I  hope  without  offense.  One 
or  two  of  these  maxims,  flowing  from  an  opinion  not  the 
most  indulgent  to  our  unhappy  species,  and  surely  a  little 
too  general,  led  him  into  measures  that  were  greatly  mis- 
chievous to  himself,  and  for  that  reason,  among  others, 
perhaps  fatal  to  his  country;  measures  the  effects  of  which 
I  am  afraid  are  for  ever  incurable.  He  made  an  adminis- 
tration so  checkered  and  speckled,  he  put  together  a  piece 
of  joinery  so  crossly  indented  and  whimsically  dovetailed; 
a  cabinet  so  variously  inlaid ;  such  a  piece  of  diversified 
mosaic;  sucli  a  tessellated  pavement  without  cement; 
here  a  bit  of  black  stone  and  there  a  bit  of  white;  patriots 
and  courtiers;  king's  friends  and  republicans;  Whigs  and 
Tories;  treacherous  fri(?nds  and  open  enemies;  that  it  was 
indeed  a  vei-y  curious  sliow,  but  utterly  unsafe  to  touch, 
jirid  unsure  to  stand  on.  The  colleagues  whom  he  had  as- 
sorted at  tlu;  same  boards  stared  at  each  other,  and  were 
ol>liged  to  ask,  Sir,  your  name? — Sir,  you  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  me — Mr.  Such-a-one — I  beg  a  thousand  pardons. 
— I  venture  to  say,  it  did  so  happen  that  persons  had  a 
single  office  di\'ided  between  them  who  had  never  spoken  to 


EDMUND    BURKE.  393 

eacli  other  in  their  lives,  until  they  found  themselves,  they 
knew  not  how,  i)i<^ging  together,  heads  and  points,  in  the 
same  truekle-bed. 

Sir,  in  consequence  of  tliis  arrangement,  having  put  so 
much  the  larger  pai't  of  his  enemies  and  ojjposcrs  into 
power,  the  confusion  was  such  that  his  own  ]u*inciples 
could  not  possibly  have  any  effect  or  influence  in  the  con- 
duct of  affairs.  If  ever  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  the  gout,  or  if 
any  other  cause  withdrew  him  from  public  cares,  prin- 
ciples directly  the  contrary  were  sure  to  predominate. 
When  he  had  executed  his  plan  he  had  not  an  inch  of 
ground  to  stand  upon,  AVhen  he  had  accomplished  his 
scheme  of  administration  he  Avas  no  longer  a  minister. 

When  his  face  was  hid  but  for  a  moment  his  whole  sys- 
tem was  on  a  wide  sea  without  chart  or  compass.  The 
gentlemen,  his  particular  friends,  who  with  the  names  of 
various  departments  of  ministry  were  admitted  to  seem 
as  if  they  acted  a  part  under  him,  with  a  modesty  that  be- 
comes all  men,  and  with  a  confidence  in  him  which  was 
justified  even  in  its  extravagance  by  his  superior  abilities, 
had  never  in  any  instance  presumed  upon  any  opinion  of 
their  own.  Deprived  of  his  guiding  influence,  they  were 
whirled  about,  the  sport  of  every  gust,  and  easily  driven 
into  any  port;  and  as  those  who  joined  with  them  in  man- 
ning the  vessel  were  the  most  directly  opposite  to  his 
o]>inions,  measures,  and  character,  and  far  the  most  art- 
ful and  powerful  of  tlie  set,  they  easily  prevailed  so  as  to 
seize  upon  the  vacant,  unoccupied,  and  derelict  minds  of 
his  friends;  and  instantly  they  turned  the  vessel  wholly 
out  of  the  course  of  his  policy.  As  if  it  were  to  insult  as 
well  as  betray  him,  even  long  before  the  close  of  the  first 
session  of  his  administration,  when  everything  was  pub- 
licly transacted,  and  with  great  parade,  in  his  name,  they 
made  an  act  declaring  it  highly  just  and  expedient  to  raise 
a  revenue  in  America.  For  even  then,  sir,  even  before  this 
splendid  orb  was  entirely  set,  and  while  the  western  hori- 
zon was  in  a  blaze  with  his  descending  glory,  on  the  op- 
posite quarter  of  the  heavens  arose  another  luminary,  and 
for  his  hour  became  lord  of  the  ascendant. 

This  light  too  is  passed  and  set  for  ever.  You  under- 
stand, to  be  sure,  that  I  speak  of  Charles  Townsliend,  of- 
ficially the  reproducer  of  this  fatal  scheme;  whom  I  can- 


394  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

not  even  now  remember  without  some  degree  of  sensibility^ 
In  truth,  sir,  he  was  the  deliiiht  and  ornament  of  this 
House,  and  the  cliarm  of  every  private  society  which  he 
honored  with  his  presence.  Perhaps  there  never  arose  in 
this  country,  nor  in  any  country,  a  man  of  a  more  pointed 
and  tiuished  wit;  and  (where  his  passions  were  not  con- 
cerned) of  a  more  retined,  exquisite,  and  penetrating  judg- 
ment. 

If  he  had  not  so  great  a  stock,  as  some  have  had  who 
llourislied  formerly,  of  knowledge  long  treasured  up,  he 
knew  better  by  f;ir  than  any  man  I  ever  was  acquainted 
with  how  to  bring  together  within  a  short  time  all  that  was 
necessary  to  establish,  to  illustrate,  and  to  decorate  that 
side  of  the  (juestion  he  supported.  He  stated  his  matter 
skillfully  and  powerfully.  He  particularly  excelled  in  a 
most  luminous  explanation  and  display  of  his  subject. 
His  style  of  argument  was  neither  trite  nor  vulgar,  nor 
subtle  and  abstruse.  He  hit  the  House  just  between  wind 
and  water.  And  not  being  troubled  with  too  anxious  a 
zeal  for  any  matter  in  question,  he  was  never  more  tedious 
or  more  earnest  than  the  preconceived  opinions  and 
present  tem])er  of  his  hearers  required;  to  whom  he  was 
always  in  perfect  unison.  He  conformed  exactly  to  the 
temper  of  the  House;  and  he  seemed  to  guide,  because  he 
was  always  sure  to  follow  it. 


THE   DUTIES   OF  A   REPRESENTATIVE. 

From  the  Bristol  Speech,  November  3,  1774. 

It  ought  to  be  the  happiness  and  glory  of  a  representa- 
tive to  live  in  the  strictest  union,  the  closest  corres- 
pondence, and  the  most  unreserved  communication  witli 
his  constituents.  Their  wishes  ought  to  have  great  weight 
with  him;  their  opinion,  high  respect;  their  business,  un- 
remitted attention.  It  is  his  duty  to  sacrifice  his  repose, 
his  pleasures,  his  satisfactions,  to  theirs;  and  above  all, 
ever,  htuI  in  all  cases,  to  prefer  their  interest  to  liis  own. 
But  his  imbiased  opinion,  Iiis  mature  Judgment,  his  en- 
lightened conscience,  he  ought  not  to  sacrifice  to  vou,  to 


EDMUND    BURKE.  395 

any  maji,  or  to  any  set  of  men  living.  These  he  does  not 
derive  from  your  pleasure;  no,  nor  from  the  law  and  the 
Constitution.  They  are  a  trust  from  Providence,  for  the 
abuse  of  which  he  is  deeply  answerable.  Your  icprcscnta- 
tive  owes  you,  not  his  industry  only,  but  his  jud^incut; 
and  he  betrays,  instead  of  serving  you,  if  he  sacritices  it 
to  your  opinion. 

My  worth}'  colleague  says,  his  will  ought  to  be  subser- 
vient to  yours.  If  that  be  all,  the  thing  is  innocent.  If 
government  were  a  niatter  of  will  upon  any  side,  yours, 
without  question,  ought  to  be  superior.  But  government 
and  legislation  are  matters  of  reason  and  judgment,  and 
not  of  inclination;  and  what  sort  of  reason  is  that,  in 
which  the  determination  precedes  the  discussion;  in  which 
one  set  of  men  deliberate,  and  another  decide;  and  where 
those  who  form  the  conclusion  are  perhai)s  three  hundred 
miles  distant  from  those  who  hear  the  arguments? 

To  deliver  an  opinion,  is  the  right  of  all  men;  that  of 
constituents  is  a  weighty  and  respectable  opinion,  which 
a  representative  ought  always  to  rejoice  to  hear ;  and  which 
he  ought  alwaj^s  most  seriously  to  consider.  But  authori- 
tative instructions;  mandates  issued,  which  the  member  is 
bound  blindly  and  implicitly  to  obey,  to  vote,  and  to  argue 
for,  though  contrary  to  the  clearest  conviction  of  his  judg- 
ment and  conscience,  these  are  things  utterly'  unknown  to 
the  laws  of  this  land,  and  which  arise  from  a  fundamental 
mistake  of  the  whole  order  and  tenor  of  our  Constitution. 

Parliament  is  not  a  congress  of  ambassadors  from  dif- 
ferent and  hostile  interests;  which  interests  each  must 
maintain,  as  an  agent  and  advocate,  against  other  agents 
and  advocates;  but  Parliament  is  a  deliberative  assembly 
of  one  nation,  with  one  interest,  that  of  the  whole;  where, 
not  local  purposes,  not  local  prejudices,  ought  to  guide, 
but  the  general  good,  resulting  from  the  general  reason 
of  the  whole.  You  choose  a  member  indeed;  but  when 
you  have  chosen  him,  he  is  not  member  of  Bristol,  but  he 
is  a  member  of  Parliament.  If  the  local  constituent  should 
have  an  interest,  or  should  form  an  hasty  opinion,  evi- 
dently opposite  to  the  real  good  of  the  rest  of  the  com- 
munity, the  member  for  that  place  ought  to  be  as  far,  as 
any  other,  from  any  endeavor  to  give  it  effect.  I  beg  par- 
don for  saying  so  much  on  this  subject.    I  have  been  un- 


31)6  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

willingly  drawn  into  it;  but  I  shall  ever  use  a  respectful 
fraukuess  of  eommuuieation  with  you.  Your  faithful 
friend,  vour  devoted  servant,  I  shall  be  to  the  end  of  my 
life;  a  batterer  jou  do  not  wish  for.  On  this  point  of  in- 
structions, however,  I  think  it  scarcely  possible  we  can 
ever  have  any  sort  of  dili'ereme.  Perhaps  I  may  give  you 
too  much,  rather  than  too  little,  trouble. 

From  the  first  hour  I  was  encouraged  to  court  your 
favor,  to  this  happy  day  of  obtaining  it,  I  have  never 
promised  you  anything  but  humble  and  persevering  en- 
deavors to  do  my  duty.  The  weight  of  that  duty,  I  confess, 
makes  me  tremble;  and  whoever  well  considers  what  it  is, 
of  all  things  in  the  world,  will  tly  from  what  has  the  least 
likeness  to  a  positive  and  precipitate  engagement.  To  be 
a  good  mendjer  of  Parliament  is,  let  me  tell  you,  no  easy 
task;  especially  at  this  time,  when  there  is  a  strong  dis- 
position to  run  into  perilous  extremes  of  servile  com- 
l)liance  or  wild  popularity.  To  unite  circumspection  with 
vigor,  is  absolutely  necessary;  but  it  is  extremely  difficult. 
We  are  now  members  for  a  rich  commercial  city;  this  city, 
however,  is  but  a  part  of  a  rich  commercial  nation,  the  in- 
terests of  which  are  various,  multiform,  and  intricate. 
We  are  members  for  that  great  nation,  which  however  is 
itself  but  a  part  of  a  great  empire,  extended  by  our  virtue 
and  our  fortune  to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  east  and  of 
the  west.  All  these  wide-spread  interests  must  be  consid- 
ered; must  be  compared;  must  be  reconciled,  if  possible. 
We  are  members  of  a  free  country;  and  surely  we  all 
know  that  the  machine  of  a  free*  constitution  is  no  simple 
thing;  but  as  intricate  and  as  delicate  as  it  is  valuable. 


R!OME   WISE   AND   WITTY   SAYINGS   OF   BURKE. 

The  followinc^  are  among  the  more  or  less  familiar  repartees  and 
ban  mots  of  the  famous  orator,  selected  from  the  vast  number  at- 
tributed to  him.  — [Ed. 

Of  Lord  Thurlow  Burke  happily  said — "  He  was  a  sturdy 
oak  when  at  NN'estminster,  and  a  willow  at  St.  James's." 


BURKE'S   STATUE    IN    THE   COURTYARD   OF 
TRINITY  COLLEGE.  DUBLIN 

From  a  photograph 

At  either  side  nt  the  principal  entrance  to  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  are  the  statues  of  Burke  and  Goldsmith, 
both  by  John  Henry  Foley. 


EDMUND    BURKE.  397 

When  some  one  Ki)oke  of  Fox's  attaclinient  to  France,  Burke 
answered — "  Yes,  his  attachment  has  been  p;i'eat  and  long;  for, 
like  a  cat,  he  has  continued  faithful  to  the  house  after  the 
family  has  left  it." 

P>urke  save  a  vehement  denial  to  Boswell's  contention  that 
Croft's  'Life  of  Young'  was  a  successful  imitation  of  John- 
son's style :  "  No,  no,  it  is  not  a  good  imitation  of  Johnson.  It 
has  all  his  j)omp,  without  his  force;  it  has  all  the  nodosities  of 
the  oak  without  its  strength ;  " — then,  after  a  pause,^"  it  has 
all  the  contortions  of  the  Sibyl — without  the  insjjiration." 

Burke,  when  proceeding  with  his  historic  impeachment  of 
Warren  Hastings,  was  interrupted  by  Major  Scott,  a  small 
man.  "Am  I,"  the  orator  thundered  indignantly,  "to  be 
teased  by  the  barking  of  this  jackal  while  I  am  attacking  the 
royal  tiger  of  Bengal?" 


THOMAS  N.  BURKE. 
(1830—1883.) 

The  Rev.  Thomas  N.  Burke — "Father  Tom  Burke'' — was  born 
in  the  picturesque  old  tow  ii  of  Galway  in  183U.  At  au  early  age  h^ 
determined  to  devote  himself  to  the  priesthood,  and  when  he  was 
seventeen  years  old  he  went  to  Italy  to  pass  through  the  necessary 
years  of  study  and  novitiate.  After  five  years  spent  in  this  pi-ep- 
aration  he  was  sent  to  England,  and  there  ordained  a  priest  of  tlie 
Dominican  order  of  friars.  After  four  years  of  missionaiy  work  in 
Gloucestershire,  he  was  sent  to  his  native  land  to  found  a  house  at 
Tallaght,  County  Dublin,  in  connection  with  his  order.  He  remained 
for  about  seven  years  in  Ireland,  and  then  again  he  was  ordered  to 
Italy,  becoming  superior  of  the  monastery  of  Irish  Dominicans  at 
San  Clemente,  Rome. 

The  death  of  Cardinal  Wiseman  in  1865  drew  Dr.  Manning  from 
Italy,  and  Father  Burke  was  selected  to  succeed  him  as  the  English 
preacher  during  the  Lenten  services  in  the  church  of  Santa  Maria 
del  Popolo  in  Rome.  Those  services  used  to  be  attended  by  large 
and  critical  audiences,  the  congregation  consisting  often  in  great 
part  of  Protestant  tourists  whom  the  holy  season  attracted  to  the 
Eternal  City,  and  the  office  of  preacher  was  accordingly  bestowed 
only  on  those  who  were  regarded  as  the  ablest  exponents  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  creed.  Having  held  this  distinguished  position  for 
five  years  in  succession,  Father  Burke  once  more  returned  to  Ireland. 
In  tiie  next  few  years,  and  indeed  for  many  years  before,  he  was 
the  most  popular  and  the  most  frequent  preacher  in  Ireland,  and 
the  competition  for  his  services  was  consequently  keen.  Whenever 
a  church  was  to  be  opened,  or  an  orphanage  to  be  built,  or  a  school 
to  be  rescued  from  debt.  Father  Burke  was  asked  to  speak ;  and 
those  incessant  though  flattering  demands  upon  him  resulted  more 
than  once  in  breaking  down  a  not  very  robust  physical  system. 

Dispatched  on  a  religious  mission  to  the  United  States  in  1872,  he 
arrived  at  the  moment  when  Mr.  Froude  was  engaged  in  his  famous 
anti-Irish  crusade.  Father  Burke  delivered  a  series  of  lectures 
in  reply  to  the  attacks  of  the  English  historian.  Those  lectures, 
as  Avell  as  many  of  his  sermons,  have  been  republished  in  volume 
form.     He  died  in  1883. 

A  NATION'S  HISTORY. 

From  a  lecture  on  the  '  History  of  Ireland  as  Told  in  her  Ruins.' 

In  tho  li])raric's  of  the  Tuoro  anciont  nations,  wo  find  the 
earliest  histories  of  tho  primeval  raocs  of  mankind  written 
iil^on  tlie  dnralile  vellum,  the  imperishable  asbestos,  or 
sometimes  deejdy  earved,  in  mystic  and  forgotten  char- 
acters, on  the  granite  stone  or  i)i(tured  rock,  showing  the 

398 


THOMAS    N.    BURKE.  3JJI) 

desire  of  the  people  to  preserve  their  history,  which  is  to 
preserve  the  memory  of  them,  just  as  the  old  man  dying 
said,  "  Lord,  keep  my  memory  green !  -' 
,  But  besides  these  more  direct  and  docnniontai'y  evi- 
dences, the  history  of  every  nation  is  enshrined  in  tlie  na- 
tional traditions,  in  the  national  music  and  song;  much 
more,  it  is  written  in  the  public  buildings  that  cover  tlic 
face  of  the  laud.  These,  silent  and  in  ruins,  tell  most  elo- 
(luently  their  tale.  To-day  "  the  stone  may  be  crundjled, 
tlie  wall  decayed";  the  clustering  ivy  may,  p('rhai>s,  uj)- 
hold  the  tottering  ruin  to  which  it  clung  in  the  days  of  its 
strength ;  but 

"  The  sorrows,  the  joys  of  which  once  they  were  part, 
Still  round  them,  like  visions  of  yesterday,  throng." 

They  are  the  voices  of  the  past ;  they  are  the  voices  of  ages 
long  gone  by.  They  rear  their  venerable  and  beautiful 
gray  heads  high  over  the  land  they  adorn ;  and  they  tell  us 
the  tale  of  the  glory  or  of  the  shame,  of  the  strength  or  of 
the  weakness,  of  the  prosperity  or  of  the  adversity  of  the 
nation  to  which  the}"  belong.  This  is  the  volume  which  we 
are  about  to  open;  this  is  the  voice  which  we  are  about  to 
call  forth  from  their  gray  and  ivied  ruins  that  cover  the 
green  bosom  of  Ireland;  we  are  about  to  go  back  up  the 
highways  of  history,  and,  as  it  were,  to  breast  and  to  stem 
the  stream  of  time,  to-day,  taking  our  start  from  the  pres- 
ent hour  in  Ireland. 

What  have  we  here?  It  is  a  statelv  church — rivaling — 
perhaps  surpassing — in  its  glory  the  grandeur  of  bygone 
times.  We  behold  the  solid  buttresses,  the  massive  wall, 
the  high  tower,  the  graceful  spire  piercing  the  clouds, 
and  upholding,  high  towards  heaven,  the  synd)ol  of  man's 
redemption,  the  glorious  sign  of  the  cross.  We  see  in 
the  stone  windows  the  massive  tracery,  so  solid,  so  strong, 
and  so  delicate. 

What  does  this  tell  us?  Here  is  this  church,  so  grand, 
yet  so  fresh  and  new  and  clean  from  the  mason's  hand. 
What  does  it  tell  us?  It  tells  us  of  a  race  that  has  never 
decayed ;  it  tells  us  of  a  people  that  have  never  lost  their 
faith  nor  their  love;  it  tells  us  of  a  nation  as  strong  in  its 
energy  for  every  highest  and  holiest  purpose,  to-day,  as  it 
was  in  the  ages  that  are  past  and  gone  for  ever. 


400  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

NATIONAL  MUSIC. 

From  a  lecture  on  '  The  National  Music  of  Ireland.' 

Wherever  we  find  a  nation  with  a  clear,  distinct,  sweet, 
and  emphatic  tradition  of  national  ninsic,  comincj  down 
from  sire  to  son,  from  .generation  to  oeneration,  from  the 
remotest  centnries — there  have  we  evidence  of  a  people 
strong:  in  character,  well  marked  in  their  national  disposi- 
tion— there  have  we  evidence  of  a  most  ancient  civiliza- 
tion. Bnt  wherever,  on  the  other  hand,  you  find  a  people 
liiih.t  and  frivolous — not  capable  of  deep  emotions  in  re- 
liiiion — not  deeply  interested  in  their  native  land,  and 
painfully  affected  by  her  fortunes — a  people  easily  losing 
their  nationality,  or  national  feeling,  and  easily  mingling 
with  strangers,  and  amalgamating  with  them — there  you 
will  be  sure  to  find  a  people  with  scarcely  any  tradition  of 
national  melody  that  would  deserve  to  be  classed  amongst 
the  songs  of  the  nations. 

Now,  amongst  these  nations,  Ireland — that  most  an- 
cient and  holy  island  in  the  western  sea — claims,  and 
deservedly,  upon  the  record  of  history,  the  first  and  grand- 
est pre-eminence  among  all  peoples.  I  do  not  deny 
to  other  nations  high  musical  excellence.  I  will  not  even 
say  that,  in  this  our  day,  we  are  not  surpassed  by  the  music 
of  (Jermany,  by  the  music  of  Italy,  or  the  music  of  Eng- 
land. Germany  for  purity  of  style,  for  depth  of  expression, 
for  the  argument  of  song,  surpasses  all  the  nations  to-day. 
Italy  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  queen  of  that  lighter,  more 
])leasing,  more  sparkling,  and,  to  me,  more  pleasant  style 
of  music.  In  her  own  style  of  music  England  is  supposed 
to  be  superior  to  Italy,  and,  perhaps,  equal  to  Germany. 

IJiit,  great  as  are  the  musical  attainments  of  these  great 
peoples,  there  is  not  one  of  these  nations,  or  any  other 
nation,  that  cnn  point  back  to  such  national  melody,  to 
such  a  b'ody  of  national  music,  as  the  Irish.  Remember 
that  I  am  not  speaking  now  of  th.e  labored  composition  of 
some  great  master;  I  am  not  speaking  now  of  a  wonderful 
mass,  written  by  one  man;  or  a  great  oratorio,  written  by 
another — works  that  appeal  to  the  ear  refined  and  attuned 
l)y  education;  works  tliat  delight  the  critic.  I  am  speak- 
ing of  the  song  that  lives  in  the  hearts  and  voices  of  all  the 


THOMAS   N.    BURKE.  401 

people;  I  am  speaking  of  the  national  sonijjs  you  will  hear 
from  the  husbandman,  in  tlie  field,  followinjjj  the  plough; 
from  the  old  woman,  singing  to  the  infant  on  her  knee; 
from  the  milk-maid,  coming  from  the  milking;  from  the 
shoemaker  at  his  work,  or  the  blacksmith  at  the  forge, 
while  he  is  shoeing  the  horse. 

This  is  the  true  song  of  the  nation;  this  is  the  true  na- 
tional melody,  that  is  handed  down,  in  a  kind  of  traditional 
way,  from  the  remotest  ages;  until,  in  the  more  civilized 
and  cultivated  time,  it  is  interpreted  into  written  music; 
and  then  the  world  discovers,  for  the  first  time,  a  most 
beautiful  melody  in  the  music  that  has  been  murmured  in 
the  glens  and  mountain  valleys  of  the  country  for  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  of  years. 

Italy  has  no  such  song.  Great  as  the  Italians  are  as 
masters,  they  have  no  popularly  received  tradition  of 
music.  The  Italian  peasant — (I  have  lived  amongst  them 
for  years) — the  Italian  peasant,  while  working  in  the  vine- 
yard, has  no  music  except  two  or  three  high  notes  of  a  most 
melancholy  character,  commencing  upon  a  high  dominant 
and  ending  in  a  semitone.  The  peasants  of  Tuscany  and 
of  Campagna,  when,  after  their  day's  work,  they  meet  in 
the  summer's  evenings  to  have  a  dance,  have  no  music; 
only  a  girl  takes  a  tambourine  and  beats  upon  it,  marking 
time,  and  they  dance  to  that,  but  they  have  no  music.  So 
with  other  countries.  But  go  to  Ireland ;  listen  to  the  old 
woman  as  she  rocks  herself  in  her  chair,  and  pulls  down 
the  hank  of  flax  for  the  spinning;  listen  to  the  girl  coming 
home  from  the  field  with  the  can  of  milk  on  her  head ;  and 
what  do  you  hear? — the  most  magnificent  melody  of  music. 
Go  to  the  country  merry-makings  and  you  will  be  sure  to 
find  the  old  fiddler,  or  old  white-headed  piper,  an  infinite 
source  of  the  brightest  and  most  sparkling  music. 

How  are  we  to  account  for  this?  We  must  seek  the 
cause  of  it  in  the  remotest  history.  It  is  a  historical  fact 
that  the  maritime  or  sea-coast  people  of  the  north  and  west 
of  Europe  were  from  time  immemorial  addicted  to  song. 
We  know,  for  instance,  that  in  the  remotest  ages  the  kings 
of  our  sea-girt  island,  when  they  went  forth  upon  their 
warlike  foray's,  were  always  accompanied  by  their  harper, 
or  minstrel,  who  animated  them  to  deeds  of  heroic  bravery. 
Even  when  the  Danes  came  sweeping  down  in  their  galleys 
86 


402  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

\\\Hn\  tlio  Irish  coast,  liiiih  on  the  prow  of  every  warboat 
sat  the  scahl,  or  ]K)et — whitc^-haired,  heroie,  wrinkled  with 
time — the  historian  of  all  their  national  wisdom  and  their 
national  prowess.  And  when  they  approached  their 
enemy,  sweeping-  with  their  lonjjj  oars  thr()u<;h  the  waves, 
he  rose  in  the  hour  of  battle,  and  poured  forth  his  soul  in 
sons:,  and  tired  everv  warrior  to  the  highest  and  most 
heroic  deeds.  Thus  it  was  in  Ireland,  when  Nial  of  the 
Nine  Ilosta.ucs  swept  down  upon  the  coast  of  France,  and 
took  St.  Patrick  (then  a  youth)  prisoner;  the  first  sounds 
that  o'reeted  the  captive's  ear  were  the  strains  of  our  old 
Irish  harper,  celebratini>'  in  a  lan^uane  he  knew  not  the 
glories  and  victories  of  heroes  long  departed. 


RICHARD  FRANCIS  BURTON. 

(1821—1890.) 

Richard  Francis  Burton,  the  famous  Orientalist  and  explorer, 
was  born  in  Tuam,  County  Galway,  in  1821,  and  was  the  son  of 
Colonel  Joseph  Netterville  Burton.  He  was  educated  mainly  on  the 
Continent  and  at  Oxford.  In  1842  he  entered  the  Indian  army,  and 
continued  in  that  service,  principally  on  the  staff  of  Sir  Charles 
Napier,  till  1861.  He  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  Eastern  lan- 
guages and  customs;  and,  having  persisted  in  this  labor  of  love 
during  his  entire  life,  became  master  of  twenty-nine  languages, 
European  and  Oriental. 

In  1852  while  on  leave  of  absence.  Captain  Burton  performed  one 
of  the  striking  feats  which  have  helped  to  make  him  famous  :  a 
feat  which  furnishes  a  proof  of  his  wonderful  knowledge  of  Eastern 
ways  as  well  as  of  his  bold  and  enterprising  spirit.  He  went  to 
Mecca  and  Medina  in  the  disguise  of  a  pilgrim,  and  so  was  able  to 
see  sacred  spots  which  had  never  before  been  beheld  by  the  eye  of 
the  infidel.  Later  he  went  on  two  exploring  expeditions  to  Central 
Africa,  his  companion  in  both  cases  being  the  lamented  Captain 
Speke.  He  was  employed  by  the  Government  during  the  Crimean 
war  on  military  service;  in  1861  he  was  appointed  to  a  consulship 
at  Fernando  Po,  and  he  occupied  his  time  in  exploring  the  interior 
of  Africa,  paying  a  visit  to,  among  other  persons,  the  redoubtable 
and  sanguinary  King  of  Dahomey.  He  held  office  in  succession  at 
Sao  Paulo  (Brazil),  Damascus,  and  Trieste;  and  in  each  place  he 
found  time  to  devote  himself  to  his  favorite  occupation  of  surveying 
many  men  and  various  cities.  He  traveled  through  North  and 
South  America,  Syria,  and  Iceland ;  lived  in  almost  every  part  of 
India;  and  in  his  later  years  made  several  visits  to  the  famous 
land  of  Midian. 

In  the  lengthy  list  of  Captain  Burton's  books  we  may  notice : '  Pil- 
grimage to  El  Medinah,'  'Highlands  of  Brazil,'  'The  Gold  Coast,' 
'  The  City  of  the  Saints,'  '  Unexplored  Palestine,'  '  Vikram  and  the 
Vampire,  or  Tales  of  Hindu  Devilry'  (1869),  'Two  Trips  to  Gorilla 
Land  '  (1875),  '  Ultima  Thule,  or  a  Summer  in  Iceland  '  (1875),  '  The 
Gold  Mines  of  Midian  and  the  Ruined  Midianite  Cities  '  (1878).  He 
was  a  past  master  in  his  knowledge  of  falconry  and  all  matters  con- 
nected with  the  pursuit  of  arms.  Perhaps  his  greatest  literary  work 
is  his  translation  of  the  Arabian  Nights  in  ten  volumes,  and  a  sup- 
plement of  six,  a  monument  to  his  rare  scholarship.  Of  this  book 
his  wife.  Lady  Isabel  Burton,  writes:  "This  grand  Arabian  work  I 
consider  my  husband's  Magnum  Opus.  .  .  .  We  were  our  own 
printers  and  our  own  publishers,  and  we  made,  between  September, 
1885,  and  November,  1888,  sixteen  thousand  guineas  (about  $84,000) — 
six  thousand  of  which  went  for  publishing  and  ten  thousand  into  our 
own  pockets,  and  it  came  just  in  time  to  give  my  husband  the  com- 
forts and  luxuries  and  freedom  that  gilded  the  five  last  years  of  his 
life.    When  he  died  there  were  four  florins  left  (about  $1.50),  which 

403 


404  IRISH   LITERATURE. 

I  put  into  the  poor-box."  This  passage  indicates  strikingly  the  reck- 
lessness that  characterized  both  husband  and  wife — a  recklessness 
which  on  his  part,  led  to  plain  speaking  and  criticism  of  his  su- 
perior olhcers,  preventing  him,  all  his  life,  from  obtaining  the  ad- 
vancement which  his  Avork  and  merit  undoubtedly  deserved.  He 
also  translated  '  The  Lusiads '  of  Camoens  and  wrote  his  Life.  His 
death  iook  place  at  Trieste  in  1890.  He  left  behind  him  a  collection 
of  Oriental  stories  entitled  '  The  Scented  Garden,'  which  was  never 
published,  for  his  widow  burned  the  manuscript. 


THE  PRETERNATURAL  IN  FICTION. 

From  the  Essay  on  '  The  Book  of  a  Thousand  Nights  and  a  Night.' 

"  As  the  active  world  is  inferior  to  the  rational  soul," 
says  Bacon,  with  his  normal  sound  sense,  "  so  Fiction  gives 
to  Mankind  what  History  denies,  and  in  some  measure  sat- 
isfies  the  Mind  with  Shadows  when  it  cannot  enjoy  the 
Substance.  And  as  real  History  gives  us  not  the  success 
of  things  according  to  the  deserts  of  vice  and  virtue,  Fic- 
tion corrects  it  and  presents  us  with  the  fates  and  fortunes 
of  persons  rewarded  and  punished  according  to  merit." 
But  I  would  say  still  more.  History  paints  or  attempts 
to  paint  life  as  it  is,  a  mighty  maze  with  or  without  a  plan; 
Fiction  shows  or  would  show  us  life  as  it  should  be,  wisely 
ordered  and  laid  down  on  fixed  lines. 

Thus  Fiction  is  not  tlie  mere  handmaid  of  History:  she 
has  a  household  of  her  own,  and  she  claims  to  be  the 
triumpli  of  Art,  which  as  Goethe  remarked,  is  "Art  because 
it  is  not  Nature."  Fancy,  la  folic  dii  logis,  is  "  that  kind 
and  gentle  portress  who  holds  the  gate  of  Hope  wide  open, 
in  opi)osition  to  Reason,  the  surly  and  scrupulous  guard." 
As  I'almerin  of  England  says,  and  says  well: — "  For  that 
the  report  of  noble  deeds  doth  urge  the  courageous  mind 
to  equal  those  who  bear  most  commendation  of  their  ap- 
proved vjiliancy;  this  is  the  fair  fruit  of  Imagination  and 
of  ancient  histories."  And  last,  but  not  least,  the  faculty 
of  Fancy  takes  count  of  the  cravings  of  man's  nature  for 
the  marvelous,  the  impossible,  and  of  his  higher  aspira- 
tions for  \\\(i  Ideal,  the  Perfect;  she  realizes  the  wild 
drenms  and  visions  of  his  generous  youth,  and  portrays 
for  liini  a  y)ortion  of  tliat  "  otlier  and  better  world,"  with 
whose  expectation  he  would  console  his  age. 


RICHARD    FRANCIS    BURTON.  405 


Tho  imaginative  varuisli  of  'The  Nights'  serves  admir- 
ably as  a  foil  to  the  absolute  realism  of  the  picture  in 
general.  We  enjoy  being  carried  away  from  trivial  and 
commoui)lace  characters,  scenes,  and  incidents;  from  the 
matter-of-fact  surroundings  of  a  workaday  world,  a  life  of 
eating  and  drinking,  sleeping  and  waking,  fighting  and  lov- 
ing, into  a  society  and  a  mise-en-sodne  Avhich  we  suspect 
can  exist  and  which  we  know  do  not.  Every  man,  at  some 
turn  or  term  of  his  life,  has  longed  for  suijernatural 
powers  and  a  glimpse  of  Wonderland.  Here  he  is  in  the 
midst  of  it.  Here  he  sees  mighty  spirits  summoned  to 
work  the  human  mite's  will,  however  whimsical ;  who 
can  transport  him  in  an  eye-twinkling  whithersoever  he 
wishes;  who  can  ruin  cities  and  build  palaces  of  gold  and 
silver,  gems  and  jacinths;  who  can  serve  up  delicate  viands 
and  delicious  drinks  in  priceless  charges  and  impossible 
cups,  and  bring  the  choicest  fruits  from  farthest  Orient: 
here  he  find  magas  and  magicians  who  can  make  kings  of 
his  friends,  slay  armies  of  his  foes,  and  bring  any  number 
of  beloveds  to  his  arms. 

And  from  this  outraging  probability  and  outstripping 
possibility  arises  not  a  little  of  that  strange  fascination 
exercised  for  nearly  two  centuries  upon  the  life  and  liter- 
ature of  Europe  by  ^  The  Nights,'  even  in  their  mutilated 
and  garbled  form.  The  reader  surrenders  himself  to  the 
spell,  feeling  almost  inclined  to  inquire,  "  And  why  may 
it  not  be  true?  "  His  brain  is  dazed  and  dazzled  by  the 
splendors  which  flash  before  it,  by  the  sudden  procession 
of  Jinns  and  Jinniyahs,  demons  and  fairies,  some  hideous, 
others  preternaturally  beautiful;  by  good  wizards  and 
evil  sorcerers,  whose  powers  are  unlimited  for  weal  and  for 
woe;  by  mermen  and  mermaids,  flying  horses,  talking  ani- 
mals, and  reasoning  elephants;  by  magic  rings  and  their 
slaves,  and  by  talismanic  couches  which  rival  the  carpet 
of  Solomon.  Hence,  as  one  remarks,  these  Fairy  Tales 
have  pleased  and  still  continue  to  please  almost  all  ages, 
all  ranks,  and  all  different  capacities. 

Dr.  Hawkosworth  observes  that  these  Fairy  Tales  find 
favor  "  because  even  their  machinery,  wild  and  wonderful 
as  it  is,  has  its  laws;  and  the  magicians  and  enchanters 
perform  nothing  but  what  was  naturally  to  be  expected 
from  such  beings,  after  we  had  once  granted  them  ex- 


400  7AVN/Z    LITERATURE. 

istenco.'-  ^Mr.  Iloron  "  rather  supposes  the  very  contrary 
is  the  truth  of  the  faet.  It  is  surely  the  strangeness,  the  un- 
kuowu  nature,  the  anomalous  character  of  the  supernat- 
ural atjents  here  employed,  that  makes  them  to  operate 
so  powerfully  on  our  hopes,  fears,  curiosities,  sympathies, 
and,  in  short,  on  all  the  feelin<j;s  of  our  hearts.  We  see 
men  and  women  who  possess  qualities  to  recommend  them 
to  our  favor,  subjected  to  the  influence  of  beings  whose 
good  or  ill  will,  power  or  weakness,  attention  or  neglect, 
are  regulated  bv  motives  and  circumstances  which  we  can- 
not  comprehend:  and  hence  we  naturally  tremble  for  their 
fate  witli  tlie  same  anxious  concern  as  we  should  for  a 
friend  wandering  in  a  dark  night  amidst  torrents  and  pre- 
cipices; or  preparing  to  land  on  a  strange  island,  while  he 
knew  not  whether  he  should  be  received  on  the  shore  by 
cannibals  waiting  to  tear  him  piecemeal  and  devour  him, 
or  by  gentle  beings  disposed  to  cherish  him  with  fond  hos- 
pitality." 

Both  writers  have  expressed  themselves  well;  but  me- 
seems  each  has  secured,  as  often  happens,  a  fragment 
of  the  truth  and  holds  it  to  be  the  whole  Truth,  Granted 
that  such  spiritual  creatures  as  Jinns  walk  the  earth, 
we  are  pleased  to  find  tliem  so  very  human,  as  wise  and 
as  foolish  in  word  and  deed  as  ourselves;  similarly  we 
admire  in  a  landscape  natural  forms  like  those  of  Staffa 
or  the  Palisades,  which  favor  the  works  of  architecture. 
Again,  supposing  such  preternaturalisms  to  be  around 
and  amongst  us,  the  wilder  and  more  capricious  they 
prove,  th(»  more  our  attention  is  excited  and  our  forecasts 
are  baftlcd,  to  be  set  right  in  the  end.  But  this  is  not  all. 
The  grand  source  of  pleasure  in  fairy  tales  is  the  natural 
desire  to  learn  more  of  the  Wonderland  which  is  known 
to  many  as  a  word  and  nothing  more,  like  Central  Africa 
before  the  last  half-centurv;  thus  the  interest  is  that  of 
the  '*  jK'rsonal  narrative''  of  a  grand  exploration,  to  on*; 
who  delights  in  travels.  The  pleasure  must  be  greatest 
where  faith  is  strongest;  for  instance,  amongst  imagi- 
native races  like  the  Kelts,  and  especially  Orientals,  who 
iml)ibe  supernaturalism  with  their  mother's  milk,  "  I  am 
jxrsuaded,"  writes  ]Mr.  Bayle  St.  John,  "  that  the  great 
seheine  of  preternatural  energy,  so  fully  developed  in  *  The 
Thousand  and  One  Nights,'  is  believed  in  by  the  majority 


RICHARD    FRAXCLS    BURTON.  407 

of  the  inhabitants  of  all  the  reli;i,ious  professions  both  in 
Syria  and  Ej^ypt.'"  He  niij^ht  have  added,  "  by  every  rea- 
soning being  from  prince  to  peasant,  froni  Mnllah  to  Ba- 
dawi,  between  ^larocco  and  Outer  Ind."' 

Dr.  Johnson  thus  sums  up  his  notice  of  '  The  Tempest ' : 
— "  Whatever  might  have  been  tlie  intention  of  their 
author,  these  tales  are  made  instrumental  to  the  produc- 
tion of  mauv  characters,  diversified  with  boundless  inven- 
tion,  and  preserved  with  profound  skill  in  nature,  ex- 
tensive knowledge  of  opinions,  and  accurate  observation  of 
life.  Here  are  exhibited  princes,  courtiers,  and  sailors,  all 
speaking  in  their  real  characters.  There  is  the  agency  of 
airy  spirits  and  of  earthy  goblins,  the  operations  of  magic, 
the  tumults  of  a  storm,  the  adventures  on  a  desert  island, 
the  native  effusion  of  untaught  affection,  the  punishment 
of  guilt,  and  the  final  happiness  of  those  for  whom  our 
passions  and  reason  are  equally  interested." 

We  can  fairly  say  this  much  and  far  more  for  our  Tales. 
Viewed  as  a  tout  enscmhic  in  full  and  complete  form,  they 
are  a  drama  of  Eastern  life,  and  a  Dance  of  Death  made 
sublime  by  faith  and  the  highest  emotions,  by  the  certainty 
of  expiation  and  the  fullness  of  atoning  equity,  where 
virtue  is  victorious,  vice  is  vanquished,  and  the  ways  of 
Allah  are  justified  to  man.  They  are  a  panorama  which 
remains  ken-speckle  upon  the  mental  retina.  They  form 
a  phantasmagoria  in  which  archangels  and  angels,  devils 
and  goblins,  men  of  air,  of  fire,  of  water,  naturally  mingle 
with  men  of  earth;  where  flying  horses  and  talking  fishes 
are  utterly  realistic:  where  King  and  Prince  meet  fisher- 
man and  pauper,  lamia  and  cannibal ;  where  citizen  jostles 
Badawi,  eunuch  meets  knight;  the  Kazi  hob-nobs  with  the 
thief;  the  pure  and  pious  sit  down  to  the  same  tray  with 
the  pander  and  the  procuress ;  where  the  professional  reli- 
gionist, the  learned  Koranist,  and  the  strictest  moralist 
consort  with  the  wicked  magician,  the  scoffer,  and  the 
debauche-poet  like  Abu  Nowas;  where  the  courtier  jests 
with  the  boor,  and  where  the  sweep  is  bedded  with  the 
noble  lady. 

And  the  characters  are  "  finished  and  quickened  by  a 
few^  touches  swift  and  sure  as  the  glance  of  sunbeams." 
The  whole  is  a  kaleidoscope  where  everything  falls  into  pic- 
ture; gorgeous  palaces  and  pavilions;  grisly  underground 


40S  IiaSH    LITERATURE. 

oaves  and  deadly  \volds;  gardens  fairer  tlian  those  of 
the  riesperid;  seas  dashing  with  clashing  billows  upon 
enchanted  mountains;  valleys  of  the  Shadow  of  Death; 
air-voyap's  and  ])ronionades  in  the  abysses  of  ocean;  the 
duello,  the  battle,  and  the  siege;  the  wooing  of  maidens 
and  ihe  marriage-rite.  All  tlie  splendor  and  squalor,  the 
beauty  and  baseness,  the  glamour  and  grotesqueness,  the 
magic  and  the  mournfulness,  the  bravery  and  baseness  of 
Oriental  life  are  here;  its  pictures  of  the  three  great  Arab 
passions — love,  war,  and  fancy — entitles  it  to  be  called 
*  r>lood,  :dusk,  and  Hashish.'  And  still  more,  the  genius 
of  the  story-teller  quickens  the  dry  bones  of  history,  and  by 
adding  Fiction  to  Fact  revives  the  dead  past;  the  Caliphs 
and  the  Caliphate  return  to  Baghdad  and  Cairo,  whilst 
Asmodeus  kindly  removes  the  terrace-roof  of  every  tene- 
ment and  allows  our  curious  glances  to  take  in  the  whole 
interior.  This  is  perhaps  the  best  proof  of  their  power. 
Finally  the  picture-gallery  opens  with  a  series  of  weird 
and  striking  adventures,  and  shows  as  a  tail-piece  an  idyl- 
lie  scene  of  love  and  wedlock,  in  halls  before  reeking  with 
lust  and  blood. 


A   JOURNEY   IN   DISGUISE. 

From  '  The  Personal  Narrative  of  a  Pilgrimage  to  El  Medinah  and 

Mecca.' 

The  thoroughbred  wanderer's  idiosyncrasy  I  presume  to 
be  a  composition  of  what  phrenologists  call  "  inhabitive- 
ness"  and  "locality,"  equally  and  largely  developed. 
After  a  long  and  toilsome  march,  weary  of  the  way,  he 
drops  into  tlie  nearest  place  of  rest  to  become  the  most 
domestic  of  men.  For  a  while  he  smokes  the  "  pipe  of 
permanence"  with  an  infinite  zest;  he  delights  in  various 
siestas  during  the  day,  relishing  withal  a  long  sleep  at 
night;  he  enjoys  dining  at  a  fixed  dinner  hour,  and  won- 
ders at  the  demoralization  of  the  mind  which  cannot  find 
means  of  excitement  in  chit-chat  or  small  talk,  in  a  novel 
or  a  newsyjaper.  But  soon  the  passive  fit  has  passed 
away;  again  a  7)aroxysm  of  ennui  coming  on  by  slow  de- 
grees, \'iator  loses  appetite,  he  walks  about  his  room  all 


RICHARD    FRANCIS    BURTON.  400 

night,  he  yawns  at  conversations,  and  a  book  acts  upon 
him  as  a  narcotic.  The  man  wants  to  wander,  and  he  must 
do  so  or  he  shall  die. 

After  about  a  month  most  ph'asantly  spent  at  Alexan- 
dria, I  perceived  the  approach  of  the  enemy,  and,  as 
nothing  hampered  my  incomings  and  oul goings,  I  sur- 
rendered. The  world  was  "  all  before  me,"  and  there  was 
pleasant  excitement  in  plunging  single-handed  into  its 
chilling  depths.  iNIy  Alexandrian  Shaykh,  whose  heart  fell 
victim  to  a  new  ''  jubbeh  "  which  1  had  given  in  exchange 
for  his  tattered  zaabut,  offered  me  in  consideration  of  a 
certain  monthly  stipend  the  affections  of  a  brother  and 
religious  refreshment,  proposing  to  send  his  wife  back  to 
her  papa,  and  to  accompany  me  in  the  capacity  of  private 
chaplain  to  the  other  side  of  Kaf.  I  politely  accepted  the 
"  briiderschaft,"  but  many  reasons  induced  me  to  decline 
his  society  and  services.  In  the  first  place,  he  spoke  the  de- 
testable Egyptian  jargon.  Secondly,  it  was  but  prudent 
to  loose  the  "  spoor "  between  Alexandria  and  Suez. 
And  thirdly,  my  "brother"  had  shifting  eyes  (symptoms 
of  fickleness),  close  together  (indices  of  cunning)  ;  a  flat- 
crowned  head  and  large  ill-fitting  lips,  signs  which  led 
me  to  think  lightly  of  his  honesty,  firmness,  and  courage. 
Phrenology  and  physiognomy,  be  it  observed,  disappoint 
you  often  among  civilized  people,  the  proper  action  of 
whose  brains  and  features  is  impeded  by  the  external  pres- 
sure of  education,  accident,  example,  habit,  necessity,  and 
what  not.  But  they  are  tolerably  safe  guides  when  grop- 
ing your  way  through  the  mind  of  man  in  his  natural 
state,  a  being  of  impulse  in  that  chrysalis  stage  of  mental 
development  which  is  rather  instinct  than  reason.  But 
before  my  departure  there  was  much  to  be  done. 

The  land  of  the  Pharaohs  is  becoming  civilized,  and  un- 
pleasantly so;  nothing  can  be  more  uncomfortable  than 
its  present  middle  state  between  barbarism  and  the  reverse. 
The  prohibition  against  carrying  arms  is  rigid  as  in  Italy; 
all  "violence"  is  violently  denounced;  and  beheading  be- 
ing deemed  cruel,  the  most  atrocious  crimes,  as  well  as 
those  small  political  offenses  which  in  the  days  of  the 
Mamelukes  would  have  led  to  a  beyship  or  a  bowstring,  re- 
ceive four-fold  punishment  by  deportation  to  Faizoghli, 
the   local    Cayenne.     If  you   order   your   peasant    to   be 


410  IRISn    LITERATURE. 

flojjfjed,  his  friends  jjathor  in  threatening  hundreds  at 
voiir  gates;  when  you  curse  your  boatman,  he  complains 
to  your  consul ;  the  dragomans  afflict  you  with  strange 
wild  notions  about  honesty;  a  government  order  prevents 
you  from  using  vitui)erative  language  to  the  "natives" 
in  general ;  and  the  very  donkey-boys  are  becoming  cog- 
nizant of  the  right  of  man  to  remain  unbastinadoed. 
Still  (he  old  leaven  remains  behind;  here,  as  elsewhere  in 
''  morning-land,''  you  cannot  hold  your  own  without  em- 
ploying your  fists.  The  ])assport  system,  now  dying  out 
of  l^uropi',  has  sprung  u]),  or  rather  revived,  in  Egypt  with 
peculiar  vigor.  Its  good  elfects  claim  for  it  our  respect; 
still  we  cannot  but  lament  its  inconveniences.  We,  I 
mean  real  Easterns.  As  strangers — even  those  whose 
beards  have  whitened  in  the  land — know  absolutely  noth- 
ing of  what  unfortunate  natives  must  endure,  I  am 
tempted  to  subjoin  a  short  sketch  of  m}'  adventures  in 
search  of  a  Tezkireh  at  Alexandria. 

Throuixh  ignorance  which  might  have  cost  me  dear  but 
for  my  friend  Larking's  weight  with  the  local  authorities, 
I  had  neglected  to  provide  myself  with  a  passport  in  Eng- 
land; and  it  was  not  without  difficulty,  involving  much 
unclean  dressing  and  an  unlimited  expenditure  of  broken 
English,  that  I  obtained  from  the  consul  at  Alexandria  a 
certificate  declaring  me  to  be  an  Indo-British  subject 
named  Abdullah,  by  profession  a  doctor,  aged  thirty,  and 
not  distinguished — at  least  so  the  frequent  blanks  seemed 
to  denote — l>y  any  remarkal)le  conformation  of  eyes,  nose, 
or  cheek.  For  this  I  disbursed  a  dollar.  And  here  let  me 
record  the  indignation  with  which  I  did  it.  That  mighty 
Britain — the  mistress  of  the  seas — the  ruler  of  one-sixth 
of  mankind — should  charge  five  shillings  to  pay  for  the 
sha<low  of  her  pi'otecting  wing  I  Tliat  I  cannot  speak  my 
modernized  "  civis  sum  Ilomanus "  without  putting  my 
hand  into  my  pocket,  in  order  that  these  officers  of  the 
(treat  Queen  may  not  take  too  ruinously  from  a  rev- 
enue of  fifty-six  millions!  Oh  the  meanness  of  our  mag- 
nificence! the  littleness  of  our  greatness! 

My  new  j)assport  would  not  carry  me  without  the  Za- 
l»it  or  Toljce  Magistrate's  counter-signature,  said  the  con- 
sul. Next  day  I  went  to  the  Zabit,  who  referred  me  to 
the  Muhafiz    (Governor)    of  Alexandria,   at   whose  gate 


RWHAKD    FUAXCIH    BLRTOX.  411 

I  had  the  honor  of  squattin*;  at  least  throe  hours,  till  a 
more  compassionate  clerk  vouchsafed  the  information 
that  the  proper  i)lace  to  ai)])ly  lo  was  the  Diwan  Khariji- 
yeh  (the  Foreign  OHIce).  Thus  a  second  day  was  utterly 
lost.  On  the  morniu<4'  of  the  third  I  started  as  directed 
for  the  i)lace,  which  crowns  the  Headland  of  Fif?s.  It  is 
a  hu.iie  and  couthless  shell  of  buildini!;  in  parallelo^rammic 
form,  containing  all  kinds  of  juiblic  offices  in  i^lorious  con- 
fusion, lookini;-  with  their  i;larin,2,-  whitewashed  faces  upon 
a  central  court,  where  a  few  leafless  wind-wrunjij  trees  seem 
strugiiiiuii;-  for  the  breath  of  life  in  an  eternal  atmosphere 
of  clay,  dust,  and  sun-blaze. 

The  first  person  I  addressed  was  a  Kawwas  or  police  of- 
ficer, Avho,  coiled  comfortably  up  in  a  bit  of  shade  fittinj; 
his  person  like  a  robe,  Avas  in  full  enjoyment  of  the  Asiatic 
''  Kaif."  Having  presented  the  consular  certificate  and 
briefly  stated  the  nature  of  my  business,  I  ventured  to  in- 
quire what  was  the  ri»lit  course  to  pursue  for  a  visa. 

They  have  little  respect  for  Dervishes,  it  appears,  at 
Alexandria!  "  M'adri  "  (Don't  know),  jjjrowled  the  man 
of  authority,  without  moviuii'  anything  but  the  (juantity 
of  tongue  necessary  for  articulation. 

Now  there  are  three  wa3^s  of  treating  Asiatic  officials, — 
by  bribe,  by  bullying,  or  by  bothering  them  with  a  dogged 
perseverance  into  attending  to  you  and  your  concerns. 
The  latter  is  the  peculiar  province  of  the  poor;  moreover, 
this  time  I  resolved  for  other  reasons  to  be  patient.  I  re- 
peated my  question  in  almost  the  same  words.  "  Ivuh  I  " 
(Be  off)  was  what  I  obtained  for  all  reply.  By  this  time 
the  questioned  went  so  far  as  to  open  his  eyes.  Still  I  stood 
twirling  the  paper  in  my  hands,  and  looking  very  humble 
and  very  persevering,  till  a  loud  "  Euh  ya  Kalbl  "  (Go,  O 
dog!)  converted  into  a  responsive  curse  the  little  speech  I 
was  preparing  about  the  brotherhood  of  El-Islam  and  the 
mutual  duties  obligatory  on  true  believers.  I  then  turned 
away  slowly  and  fiercely,  for  the  next  thing  might  have 
been  a  cut  with  the  Kurbaj  (bastinado),  and  by  the  ham- 
mer of  Thor!  British  flesh  and  blood  could  never  have 
stood  that. 

After  which  satisfactory  scene, — for  satisfactory  it  was 
in  one  sense,  proving  the  complete  fitness  of  tlie  DervishV 
dress, — I  tried  a  dozen  other  promiscuous  sources  of  iif 


412  IRISH    LITERATURE. 

formatiou, — policemen,  brooms,  scribes,  donkey-bojs,  and 
idlers  in  <ieueral.  At  length,  wearied  of  j^atience,  I  of- 
fered a  soldier  some  pinches  of  tobacco  and  promised  him 
an  Oriental  sixpence  if  he  would  manage  the  business  for 
me.  The  man  was  interested  by  the  tobacco  and  the 
pence;  he  took  my  hand,  and  inquiring  the  while  he  went 
ait)ng,  led  me  from  place  to  place  till,  mounting  a  grand 
staircase,  I  stood  in  the  presence  of  Abbas  Eti'endi,  the 
governor's  Naib  or  deputy. 

It  was  a  little  whey-faced  black-bearded  Turk  coiled  up 
in  the  usual  conglomerate  posture  upon  a  calico-covered 
divan,  at  the  end  of  a  long  bare  large-windowed  room. 
Without  deigning  even  to  nod  the  head  which  hung  over 
bis  shoulder,  with  transcendent  listlessness  and  affecta- 
tion of  pride,  in  answer  to  my  salams  and  benedictions,  be 
eyed  me  with  wicked  eyes  and  faintly  ejaculated  "  Mi- 
nent? ''  Then  hearing  that  I  was  a  Dervish  and  doctor, — 
he  must  be  an  Osmanli  Voltairian,  that  little  Turk, — the 
otticial  snorted  a  contemptuous  snort.  lie  condescendingly 
added,  however,  that  the  proper  source  to  seek  was  "  Taht," 
which,  meaning  simply  "  below,"  conveyed  rather  imper- 
fect information  in  a  topographical  point  of  view  to  a 
stranger.  At  length  hov.ever  my  soldier  guide  found  out 
that  a  room  in  the  custom-house  bore  the  honorable  ap- 
pellation of  "  Foreign  Office."  Accordingly  I  went  there, 
and  after  sitting  at  least  a  couple  of  hours  at  the  bolted 
door  in  the  noonday  sun,  was  told,  with  a  fury  which  made 
me  think  I  had  sinned,  that  the  officer  in  whose  charge 
the  department  was  had  been  presented  with  an  olive- 
branch  in  the  morning,  and  consequently  that  business  was 
not  to  be  done  that  day.  The  angry-faced  official  com- 
municated the  intelligence  to  a  large  group  of  Anadolian, 
Caramanian,  Bosniac,  and  Rouraelian  Turks, — sturdy, 
undersized,  broad-shouldered,  bare-legged,  splay-footed, 
horny-fisted,  dark-brown,  honest-looking  mountaineers, 
who  were  lounging  about  with  long  pistols  and  yataghans 
stuck  in  their  broad  sashes,  head-gear  composed  of  im- 
mense tarbooshes  with  proportionate  turbans  coiled  round 
them,  and  two  or  three  suits  of  substantial  clothes — even 
at  this  season  of  the  year — upon  their  shoulders. 

Likf  myself  they  had  waited  some  hours,  but  they  were 
not  patient  under  disapi)ointment :  they  bluntly  told  the 


J 


RICHARD    FRANCIS   BURTON.  413 

angry  official  tliat  he  and  his  master  were  a  pair  of  idlers, 
and  the  curses  that  rniiibled  and  gnrgled  in  their  hairy 
throats  as  tliey  strode  towards  the  door  sounded  like  the 
growling  of  wild  beasts. 

Thus  was  another  daj^  truly  Orientally  lost.  On  tlie 
morrow  however  I  obtained  permission,  in  the  character 
of  Dr.  Abdullah,  to  visit  any  part  of  Egypt  I  pleased,  and 
to  retain  possession  of  my  dagger  and  pistols. 

And  now  I  must  explain  what  induced  me  take  so  much 
trouble  about  a  passport.  The  home  reader  naturally  in- 
quires. Why  not  travel  under  your  English  name? 

For  this  reason.  In  the  generality  of  barbarous  coun- 
tries you  must  either  proceed,  like  Bruce,  preserving  the 
"  dignity  of  manhood  "  and  carrying  matters  with  a  liigh 
hand,  or  vou  must  worm  your  wav  bv  timiditv  and  subser- 
vience;  in  fact,  by  becoming  an  animal  too  contemptible 
for  man  to  let  or  injure.  But  to  pass  through  the  Holy 
Land  you  must  either  be  a  born  believer,  or  have  become 
one;  in  the  former  case  you  may  demean  yourself  as  you 
please,  in  the  latter  a  path  is  ready  prepared  for  you.  My 
spirit  could  not  bend  to  own  myself  a  Burma,  a  renegade 
to  be  pointed  at  and  shunned  and  catechized,  an  object  of 
suspicion  to  the  many  and  of  contempt  to  all.  Moreover, 
it  would  have  obstructed  the  aim  of  my  wanderings.  The 
convert  is  always  watched  with  Argus  eyes,  and  men  do 
not  willingly  give  information  to  a  "  new  Moslem,"  espe- 
cially a  Frank :  they  suspect  his  conversion  to  be  a  feigned 
or  a  forced  one,  look  upon  him  as  a  spy,  and  let  him  see  as 
little  of  life  as  possible.  Firmly  as  was  my  heart  set  upon 
traveling  in  Arabia,  by  Heaven!  I  would  have  given  up 
the  dear  project  rather  than  purchrse  a  doubtful  and  par- 
tial success  at  such  a  price.  Consequently  I  had  no  choice 
but  to  appear  as  a  born  believer,  and  part  of  my  birthright 
in  that  respectable  character  was  toil  and  trouble  in  ob- 
taining a  tezkirah. 

Then  I  had  to  provide  myself  with  certain  necessaries 
for  the  way.  These  were  not  numerous.  The  silver- 
mounted  dressing-case  is  here  supplied  by  a  rag  containing 
a  miswak,  a  bit  of  soap,  and  a  comb — wooden,  for  bone 
and  tortoise-shell  are  not,  religiously  speaking,  correct. 
Equally  simple  was  my  wardrobe :  a  change  or  two  of  cloth- 
ing.    The  onlv  article  of  canteen  descrii^tion  was  a  zem- 


414  IRIS^H    LITERATURE. 

zomivah,  a  j^oatskin  wator-baji',  which  eomnuinicates  to  its 
contents,  especially  when  new,  a  ferruj'inous  aspect  and 
a  wholesome  thon»h  hardly  an  attractive  flavor  of  tanno- 
gelatine.  This  was  a  necessary;  to  drink  out  of  a  tumbler, 
possibly  fresh  from  piji-eatiui;  lips,  would  have  entailed 
a  certain  loss  of  reputation.  For  beddinij;'  and  furniture 
1  had  a  coarse  Persian  rui;- — which,  besides  being  couch, 
acts  as  chair,  table,  and  orator^', — a  cotton-stulfed  chintz- 
covered  pillow,  a  blanket  in  case  of  cold,  and  a  sheet  which 
does  duty  for  tent  and  mosquito  curtains  in  nij^hts  of  heat. 
As  shade  is  a  convenience  not  always  procurable,  another 
necessary  was  a  huge  cotton  und)rella  of  Eastern  make, 
brightly  yellow,  suggesting  the  idea  of  an  overgrown  mari- 
gold. I  had  also  a  substantial  housewife,  the  gift  of  a 
kind  friend:  it  was  a  roll  of  canvas,  carefully  soiled,  and 
garnished  with  needles  and  thread,  cobblers'  wax,  buttons, 
and  other  such  articles.  These  things  were  most  useful  in 
lands  where  tailors  abound  not;  besides  which,  the  sight  of 
a  man  darning  his  coat  or  patching  his  slippers  teems  with 
I)leasing  ideas  of  humility.  A  dagger,  a  brass  inkstand 
and  penholder  stuck  in  the  belt,  and  a  mighty  rosary, 
which  on  occasion  might  have  been  converted  into  a 
weapon  of  offense,  completed  my  equipment.  I  must  not 
omit  to  mention  the  proper  method  of  carrying  money, 
which  in  these  lands  should  never  be  intrusted  to  box  or 
bag.  A  common  cotton  purse  secured  in  a  breast  pocket 
(for  Egypt  now  abounds  in  that  civilized  animal  the  pick- 
pocket) contained  silver  pieces  and  small  change.  Afy 
gold,  of  which  I  carried  twenty-five  sovereigns,  and  papers, 
were  committed  to  a  sultstantial  leathern  belt  of  Maghrabi 
manufacture,  made  to  be  strapped  around  the  waist  under 
the  dress. 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFUKInU 


UNrV'ERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


j&n.yc  '55 


MAfiC 


ItLTERUBRARY  LOANS 


DUE  TWO 


V 


■  OF  RECEIPT 


Form  L9-25m-9,'47(A5618)444 


ttn:ivf7?STTY  of  CAL 


PB 

""  1347 
1681 


Irish  litera- 
tur©^^^ 


<S'^^ 


illllllllllllllillllllilllllilll       ^ 

3   1158  00691    S11Q 


FB 

1347 
1681 
v.l 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  432  344    o 


;„  ::;;:::::::r;;.:,!;cxaara{:i L;u!iiii;:iii)!iiRii!iiiii:'ijl 


■A^BXAni' 


Sttii'.!Mi<ininrs«r 


pax^ 


BS& 


lil>lM^M>'<*<»' 


„.i.  I  -  1^  II  i  111   ftn 


xc 


sx 


a^xau- 


-i^—ifc  »»■»»» 


:£3S: 


3X: 


=3 


acrr.. 


lifc  ■  I  w  lO  I  ■!  ^^iiiMXi**- 


rX'    .Vi'rrTu: 


-irr-,^.;. 


'ii.»*^9tft»^iiit4p^m^  ■ 


*'*' '      ■■  T   f  in  r  I  fit  inn  11*1  ii  iiiiiiiMt—iiy 


I  rv<  u  <  f  1  rw  u  1 1 


